


The Breath That Carried Me

by ShastaFirecracker



Series: Florence 'verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Gabriel, Birthday Sex, Drunk Sex, Law Student Sam, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Mild Kink, Mild S&M, Teacher Castiel, casa erotica is a hotel chain, porn magnate gabriel?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShastaFirecracker/pseuds/ShastaFirecracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoiler: Cas' birthday present is sex. It also happens to involve Gabriel's erotic hotel business empire, giant bathtubs, negotiating kinks, slumber party makeovers, and falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Specific kink/trigger notes at end in case you don't want to be spoiled.

The Breath That Carried Me

 

_“the breath that passed from you to me  
the sigh that blew me forward”_

 

April 20  
Castiel's birthday

 

Tongue deep in Dean's mouth, Cas fleetingly thinks that he is so glad Sam was busy and couldn't come out tonight. Dean nips his tongue, sucks it hard, shoves it away with his own to lick under at Cas' teeth. Cas digs his hand behind Dean's knee, pulls his bent leg further up on the booth seat to get him even closer, angles his mouth to allow no space for breath that isn't shared. It's messy, it's frantic, it tastes like terrible mixers because no one should allow Gabriel to order drinks ever ever ever, and it is, unfortunately, all happening in public.

Cas is just drunk enough to not be able to stop but not quite drunk enough to be blissfully unaware of the wolf whistles occassionally being directed at him. Them.

Look, it's the corner booth, it's mostly shadowed, and he feels like he has spent more than enough time humoring Gabriel's efforts to make him 'party'. Gabe got him this drunk so Gabe can't say a damn word if Cas has decided that he intends to hold his own personal birthday party entirely in his boyfriend's hot, greedy, enthusiastic mouth.

He's vaguely aware that there are patrons in this club other than his brother's party of friends, but about that, at least, he gives zero fucks. Other people are a faraway consideration and no one's gonna bother him in the corner. Cas has stayed in shadowed corners all his life and now someone's in here with him, who _wants_ to be here with him. This is the best corner. Other people can just fuck off and _wish_ they were in this corner.

The upholstery is faux-leather, doesn't provide much leverage. Dean's hiked-up knee slides out to the side, which just drops his crotch to Cas' thigh. He pants into Cas' mouth and jerks his hips. Well, so much for any half-hearted effort to keep this from turning into full-on public dry humping.

It's not the kind of place where anyone will care about two guys rubbing one off in the corner booth. In fact, it's the kind of place that has red and purple recessed lighting and curtained alcoves for patrons who might prefer getting less clothed or indulging in chemicals other than alcohol. The lighting is so low Cas has decided they must be trying to simulate the experience of early hominids stumbling around a cave lit only by a few burning embers. Gabe vanished somewhere with Kali some time ago and his roaring drunk group of friends are entangled in a round-table of loud, lewd storytelling and under-the-table debauchery (some of the debauchery is above the table). Cas is fairly sure Gabriel owns the place. The staff are all wearing very, very tight shorts.

Grudgingly, with every erratic movement of Dean's hips and flex of his back under Cas' other hand, Cas begins to care. To resist. He's not drunk enough or desperate enough to think that furtively coming in his shorts before the night's even half over is a good idea. He moves Dean's knee close again, pushes Dean away from his thigh.

Dean groans his complaint into his mouth, pants against his lips. “Come on,” he whines. He claims he doesn't whine, that his voice is too deep to even produce a whine, but Cas just gives him a bullshit-calling look every time he protests.

“Wan' go home,” Cas says, and bites Dean's bottom lip.

“Yeah,” Dean pants. When he tries to grind down again anyway, Cas grabs his ass with both hands to hold him off.

“Gonna be awake all night, you said,” says Cas, trying for admonishing but probably failing.

“Take the edge off?” Dean says hopefully.

Cas shakes his head, pulls the collar of Dean's henley down and licks into the hollow of Dean's throat. “Like the edge,” he tells Dean's skin, mouth full of salt sweat and the slight chemical tang of whatever cologne Dean barely smells like anymore under the fumes of rum and applejack. “Keep the edge.”

“Fucker,” Dean mutters.

“That,” says Cas, “is the idea.”

“Kay.” Dean moves both hands to Cas' shoulders and pushes up onto slightly wobbly legs. “That's it. Time fer presens.”

“Hm?”

“Calla cab buddy, you got a presen'a open at home.” Dean sticks one hand unceremoniously into the waistband of his jeans.

“Oh,” says Cas. He grins, reaches out to grab Dean's belt, tugs him forward so that, were there not clothing in the way, Dean's cock would be close enough to brush Cas' mouth. “But Sam already gave me a present,” he says, all innocence. “And I said I didn't want anything, anyway.”

“Pretty goddam sure Sam'n me didn' get you the same thing,” Dean says, eyebrow raised. He moves a hand to Cas' hair and pulls a strand loose with a sharp little sting. “'Cause if you been fuckin' my brother you're a dead man,” he adds.

“Glad we cleared that up,” Cas laughs. He leans back and tries to fumble a hand into his pants pocket.

“Don' get started without me,” Dean grins, bending at the waist and putting both hands on the top of the booth back either side of Cas' head.

“Ugh,” says Cas, now fighting against swaying vision and molasses brain to remember how to call a cab.

There's a sudden, loud smack and Dean yelps and straightens. Cas looks up to see Gabriel leaning around Dean, hand out to the side.

“Whathe fuck,” Dean says.

“Well, you were displaying it so nicely,” Gabe says, turning his hands palm-up and looking like 'who, me?'

“Hands off,” Dean snaps.

Gabe jazz-hands and grins but keeps his distance. “Okay, okay. Hey and who're you calling there, bucko?”

Cas drops hands and phone into his lap in frustration. “Cab.”

“Uh-uh, dear bro of mine,” says Gabriel. Tsking, he snaps up Cas' phone from his unsuspecting hand, turns it off and shoves it in his back pocket. “You haven't gotten your present yet.”

Cas glares but fears that as inebriated as he is it just comes off as pathetic.

Dean grabs for Gabe, who dodges. “Givit back,” he says. “Fuckin' cockblock.”

Gabe bellows a laugh. “Hardly! Do you even know where you are?” He gestures expansively.

“A den of iniquity,” Cas grumbles.

 _“Exactly,”_ says Gabe. “This is not a brothel, my friend -”

“All I care about is the bar,” Cas groans, throwing his head back on the seat.

“You wound me, your own brother. Come on, this is my success story, Cassie! Your dream may have been to scrape up a crappy government-subsidized salary teaching snot-nosed frat boys about rotten old chunks of rock, but I went _big,_ bro. The Casa chain is my _baby._ So come on, lemme show off a little bit.” He pulls a hangdog, kicked-puppy face and holds two fingers a tiny fraction apart to indicate how little his bragging would be.

It's a lie, a lie, a damned lie. Cas sighs overdramatically and pushes up from the seat to stand. Dean immediately slinks an arm around his waist. “Fine,” says Cas. “The faster you do your sales pitch the sooner I get my phone back.”

“Oh no no no,” Gabe says. “You are not following me, sweetheart. This place – this is your birthday present from me. You're staying! One of the best suites, all yours tonight and tomorrow. All the minibar you can get wasted on and all the room service you can order, on me, and lemme tell you the menu has a hell of a lot more on it than chicken salad -”

Cas reels while Gabe yammers. He fishmouths for a second. He is, of course, vaguely aware of the fact that the club/lounge/bar area they're in now is just a business on the ground floor of a reasonably sized upscale hotel. He knew Gabe owned the club but somehow he hadn't connected the rest of the building to the business empire Gabe has built up in the... erotic services niche. He doesn't, strictly speaking, know what it is that Gabe _does._ Porn? Probably? Cas thinks he qualifies as rich but has never asked exactly what Gabe makes a year. He very much doesn't want to know the details. He's happy to be Gabe's shoulder to cry (rather, slobber) on when things go pear-shaped with Kali, as they always do, but he isn't the tiniest bit interested in thinking about his brother and the sex industry in the same thought.

Unfortunately that's all he can do right now. “Gabe,” he says, pleading, “I really just, this is nice of you, but I want – my own bed and, and toothbrush, and. You know. Gabe.”

Gabriel's expression twitches momentarily with a more honest look than he's had all night, but it layers over quickly with salesmanship. “Come on, Cassie,” he says, “I get it, I know, springing things on you last minute is a shitty thing to do, but I _know_ you, bro. I wouldn't try to talk you into something you're not gonna like.”

“Gabriel,” Cas groans.

“Listen, you,” says Dean, attempting to glower. “This is, this is kidnapping or something, not lettin us leave.” He leans forward earnestly. “'N you are not appreciating how bad I need to fuck this man blind,” he says, pointing at Cas.

“Dean,” Cas complains, just as loud.

Gabe waves a hand. “Oh, I do, I do,” he says. “And as open-minded as I am, please don't remind me too often about the sexual proclivities of my baby brother. It's just tacky.” He grabs Cas' arm and starts pulling him onward to the back wall of the club. “Come on, just let me show you the suite and if you don't want to stay I'll call the cab myself.”

Cas lets himself be pulled along and Dean follows with him, glued to his side.

“You owe me so much spanking,” Dean mutters into his ear, and a spike of heat down Cas' spine to his groin reminds him of exactly what he's not getting to do right now. His mood towards Gabriel has been amicable and indulgent until now but that's rapidly changing.

There's an angled recess in the wall that turns abruptly into a cleverly hidden elevator well. Gabe pushes a button on the wall, happily saying, “Staff elevator for you guys, since I don't think you'd appreciate the all-glass Willy Wonka confection in the lobby. Very public, if you're into that kinda thing. Which, given -?”

Cas pulls Dean even more flush to his waist in instinctive protectiveness, which is hilariously counterproductive to his snap of “No.”

Gabriel pointedly eyes the total lack of distance between them but Dean just counters with a death glare.

“Fine, fine,” says Gabe. The elevator arrives. It's spacious, even though it isn't meant for the public, and just as clean and richly decorated as anywhere else in the hotel. Cas would be very surprised to ever find his brother running a business with anything remotely resembling a seedy underbelly. Gabe keeps all his seediness right on the surface and apologizes for nothing. He treats employees with extraordinary generosity. He might be a pain in the ass, but Cas does appreciate the general _goodness_ of his insufferable dick of a brother.

Gabe chatters as they go up and up and up. About the floors, the spa (there's a spa?), the themes of various suites, extravagant events held downstairs and hurricane parties that have happened upstairs. Cas doesn't see how any of this is meant to be selling him on the idea of spending the night here, which is frankly impossible anyway since he has to go to work tomorrow and he's already a lot drunker than he should be if he doesn't want to stagger through classes in hangover hell. Which reminds him, he needs to down like a gallon of water soon.

Dean works his hand into Cas' back pocket and squeezes. Cas gives up any semblance of listening to Gabe.

The doors chime open and Cas drags Dean along after Gabe down the hall. The hall is as opulent as Cas would expect from this place, doors to suites set into deeply recessed alcoves lit with dark amber tones. The whole place is faux-fire and sultry-chic and Cas half expects it to smell like a tobacconists' shop. Dean's eyeing the place appreciatively.

They don't pass many doors, and the doors they do pass are so far apart that Cas can barely guess at the size of the rooms they hide. There's a cart loaded with pink and red towels in the hall outside one door and an employee in a very short, very tight white minidress comes out as they pass.

She brightens at seeing Gabriel. “Hi, Mr. Novak,” she says, and even her voice is smoky.  
Gabe raises a hand to high-five her as they pass. “Takin' care of business, Sonya?”

“Always.” Cas notices her eye Gabe's ass as they go by.

“So professional,” Cas mutters.

“Here,” says Gabe, casting a mocking glare back at Cas as they stop at a door. “Creme de la crème, broseph.”

“Please, if this is some sort of red satin everywhere and heart-shaped bed situation, I don't even want to...” Cas starts, pained, but Gabe swipes a keycard, rolls his eyes and flings open the door.

Cas is stunned. In part it's because he was so primed to full-on disdain mode that he really _is_ surprised. He drifts away from Dean, through the door, to stare at the full panorama of the room in front of him.

It's not anything he'd ever have expected from Gabriel – that is, gaudy satins, inappropriately heart shaped objects, signs of sex and sexuality oozing out of every slightly lewd item of décor. He's positive there must be rooms like that in this hotel, somewhere. But this one is not that. It's dim but the light is a comfortable, warm orange, from lamps on tables as well as recessed lights in the ceiling. There's an empty coat closet with the door rolled back near the door and an open-plan living space spread out to the right. The closet is as big as some motel rooms Cas has seen. One wall of it is loaded with thick, fluffy towels and fresh linens. The living space is painted a burnt ochre below a dark wood wainscoting and creamy ivory above. Overstuffed, oversized chairs and one huge sofa are spaced around an enormous flatscreen TV on one wall, with a beautiful (oak?) low round table between.

There are bookshelves (with books!) inset into the wall to one side of the TV area, and on the wall opposite them, an actual full-blown fireplace.

There are rugs, thick-piled, deliciously soft. There is a little bit of art here and there, autumnal nature prints rather than dull motel fare or the overwrought nudes Cas had more expected. The temperature is close to comfortable but on the cool side, which makes the fireplace look damn inviting. Beyond the open living space is a fairly extravagant, if small, kitchenette – fridge, stove, as much counter and cabinet space as Cas has seen in many apartments.

Cas rounds back to Gabe, mouth open.

Gabe spreads his hands wide. “Eh? Whatta ya think?”

“What? Why?” Cas isn't very articulate when he's still fairly dizzy with rum.

“Come on, Cas,” says Gabe with an eyeroll. “Nerds and hermits need some lovin', too. There's plenty of people out there whose romantic ideal is more cabin in the woods than Playboy Mansion. And, uh...” he shrugs. “I have you to thank for knowing that. I kinda designed this one with you in mind.”

“That's -” Cas struggles for the right word. “Creepy as hell, Gabriel.”

Gabe's eyebrows shoot up.

Cas hastens to add, “But this is...” He looks around. It feels like a home without even trying. He's been here twenty seconds and he's already relaxing.

“Perfect!” Gabe points to the kitchen area. “Minibar, not that I think you need any more liquid courage for one night. Over a thousand channels, not that you'll be watching those.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“For someone who claims to not want to think about his brother and sex in the same sentence,” Dean starts.

Gabe snorts. “Hey, I'm no idiot. I don't dwell on it, but good Lord, do you know how tragic this has been?” He looks wide-eyed at Dean while waving his hands up and down at Cas, indicating “this.” “No one has needed to get laid more in the history of -”

“All right,” Cas cuts him off. “This is all very – very something, Gabe, and it's very you, but Dean and I have work tomorrow and we can't just drop everything to -”

“Funny you should mention that,” says Gabe, pulling Cas' phone from his pocket and waggling it around. “Because once I apologized for burning her ears off the first time we talked, it turned out your lovely departmental assistant was very intrigued by the idea of assisting with my little scheme.”

“Annie?” Cas is scandalized.

“And so was dear little Sammy, which is why you'll find a packed duffel of your own clothes in the bedroom,” Gabe goes on airily.

“What?” Dean snarls.

“Oh come on, why do you think he didn't come out tonight? He likes Cassie, he'd happily go to his birthday party in any other circumstance.” Those eyebrows are going to pop right off if they don't stop going all over the place, Cas thinks. There's a tic in one of his own now. Dean looks as drunkenly affronted as Cas has ever seen.

“So, long story short,” says Gabe, “Operation Birthday Honeymoon was a rousing success and I have it on great authority that your respective workplaces want you to stay the fuck on vacation for a day or two. You workaholics.” He's fond but mocking. “Now, if I give this phone back, are you gonna call a cab? 'Cause if you show up at work tomorrow,” he points at Cas, “Annie's gonna cry, and if _you_ show up at work tomorrow,” to Dean, “a one Mr. Bobby Singer has promised to box my ears until there's only gaping holes in the sides of my head.”

Dean makes a 'sounds about right' face.

“This is,” Cas tries. “You are.” Ridiculous. But also generous, extravagant, stupid and kind. Cas' face is probably tied up in a knot trying to express some combination of the above. “I can't,” he says finally.

Gabe gives an exaggerated shrug and pout. “Well, I tried?” he says, looking forlornly at Cas' phone in his hand. “I tried to give my little brother the only thing I didn't get to give him when I ran away... a perfect home, even just for a little while...”

“Low,” says Cas. _“Low.”_

Dean raises his eyebrows in a 'not getting involved, silent innocent whistle' face and meanders away from them, into the suite to explore.

“Okay,” says Gabe, giving up the kicked-puppy look. “That was bull. But Castiel, seriously, I know you. Knowing you has made me a better person. Wait, that came out a lot sappier than I intended. I just meant knowing what kind of person you are has made me better at understanding people in general. Also, I like you and I want you to have nice things.”

“Goodness,” Cas says drily. “My ears are burning.”

“You're so ungrateful.” Gabe's eyes are twinkling.

“Thank you,” Cas says, at last, with some measure of gracious acceptance.

There's an exclamation from elsewhere in the suite. “Hey, uh, Cas, this is totally up to you and all,” says Dean, sticking his head back into view of the door, “but you should really check out this bathroom before you say no.”

Gabe's grin is so shit-eating Cas wants to strangle it right off him.

“Fine,” Cas capitulates with a sigh. “I consider myself on forced vacation.”

“Two days, three, whatever,” Gabriel says. “Until you get sick of each other. God knows I've mooched off you enough times, you deserve a turn at being a freeloader.” He raises a finger. “I _will_ charge for porn downloads. Gotta pay my artists.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “You're disgusting,” he says, “but somehow I still love you.”

“Aw, Cassie used the l-word,” Gabe sing-songs.

“Go away,” Cas says flatly.

Gabe raises both hands and backs to the door, half-bowed. “The walls are soundproof,” he says. “The staff never question strange stains.”

“Please leave.”

Gabe laughs and straightens, just outside the door in the hall. “Oh, and one more thing,” he says. “Check the bookshelves. Some stuff you might want to keep.”

Cas gives him a bemused look, but Gabe reaches in and pulls the door shut with a loud clack. Cas hesitates, then reaches out and deadbolts it.

“Hey,” says Dean from across the room. “We stayin'?”

“I think I've been sold on it, yes.”

“Sweet, and seriously, come in here.”

Cas sticks his hands in his pockets and goes after Dean. Around a partitioned corner is a little hexagonal foyer-like space with a low table bearing a fancy folder (menu? directory?) standing upright, a sleek black phone and a little deck of business cards. There are drawers Cas is sure contain the other usual accoutrements of a hotel – although not, he's sure, the ubiquitous Gideon Bible. Even Gabriel isn't that crass or twisted.

To one side is the door Dean's gone through. Cas follows, staring up and around at what had so excited Dean – the bathroom is a sweeping space more like a sauna or meditation room, all in warm stone with softened corners. Textured granite steps lead up to a tub like a small pool that occupies more than half of the room. There's seating inside it, showerheads in multiple places in the ceiling, jets set into the wall.

“Dude, it's got controls like a 747,” Dean says, going over to a little control panel on the wall. “I am getting in here and never getting out.”

“Well that does put a significant limitation on how we'll spend the next couple of days,” Cas says, but he can't help the grin that's already overtaking him.

Dean straightens, spins to face him – only a little unsteady. “Hey,” he says, walking up to Cas and putting his hands on Cas' hips. “Heeey. Nope. Look at all these surfaces that need christening.”

“I'm not really sure how much christening I can do in only two days,” Cas murmurs.

“Or three,” says Dean. “Or whatever.” He leans in, catches Cas' mouth with his again.

It's been an entertaining distraction, coming up here, arguing with Gabe, but Cas is reminded with a sharp jolt of heat why exactly he'd been so anxious to leave in the first place. Dean's mouth is still mixer-sour and hot as hell.

“So the sofa looks nice,” Cas says into the corner of Dean's mouth. “Or we could see what terrors await in the bedroom. He says nothing will be heart-shaped, but I remain dubious.”

“Better check it out,” Dean says, nipping at his jaw.

Cas practically turns and flees, Dean's hand held tight in his.

The door opposite the bathroom is, as Cas suspected, the bedroom. He stops just inside the door and Dean runs right into his back (and doesn't waste the opportunity to drape himself over Cas' shoulders and press flush along Cas' spine). It's involuntary, though – the room, the _room._ It's aesthetically tied to the living room, of course, with the same paint colors and tones of wood in the furniture, but the center of the floor is occupied by an enormous oval rug in emerald and chocolate and gold, intricate knots and root-patterns. The closed curtains over the window match the rug. Instead of an art print, one wall is given to the display of a few carefully placed shadowboxes with pinned bees, moths and beetles, glittering bright and catching the faux-candlelight from the fixtures in the walls. The bed, though, is what really stopped Cas in his tracks, or rather the way the bed makes what is really a very small space look like decadence incarnate. It stretches wall-to-wall, occupying the opposite half of the room the same way the tub fills the bathroom. And it's enclosed into an intimate little cave (with dim, hidden lighting inside so it isn't totally dark) by the fucking _loft_ above it.

A half-circle of spiral steps lead up from the end of the bed, curling possessively around a lamp and providing a way up to the loft space. The rooms aren't overly tall, Cas guesses – taller than an average house or apartment; maybe nine feet, ten? The cave full of bed has enough headroom to sit upright; the loft space just above it is shadowed and it's hard to tell how high it goes, but Cas doesn't think there's any way the ceiling could be higher in here. It defies physics.

Dean rubs himself shamelessly against Cas' back. “Nice digs.”

“This is the best place,” says Cas, “I have ever been in.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah? I kinda wanted a racecar bed when I was a little kid. Or a bunk bed so I could make Sammy sleep on the bottom.”

“I had my share of bunk beds,” Cas says, covering Dean's hands on his waist with his own and pulling them around, closer, running his palms against the grain of hair to raise it then smoothing it again. “What I really wanted was a cave.”

“Looks cave-like,” Dean says, and leans on Cas until he walks forward, Dean guiding. At the edge of the bed, Dean slides his hands away from Cas' waist and moves around so he's in front of Cas again. He sits on the mattress, face near Cas' crotch. He toes off his shoes and Cas follows suit. “Come down here,” Dean says, low and husky with want.

With that Cas is gone. He bends down to devour Dean's mouth, stays with him, kissing and licking and biting all the while they shuffle further up, fully onto the mattress, until they're in the part overhung by the loft floor. They could roll around on this mattress and never find the edge. It's like a damn cloud, too, Cas can already tell just from being on his knees, straddling Dean's thighs.

For a while he loses himself completely in tongue, lips, the rasp of faint stubble, breathing Dean's applejack-sour breath. It's good, it's so good, just this, and he's hard as hell with anticipation but Dean's tongue slicking flat over the roof of his mouth is so distracting he can't even care.

Then Dean shifts and pushes upright so he's sitting with Cas in his lap and there's all of a sudden a lot more grinding because of the angle, and Cas groans into Dean's mouth and breaks off, panting.

“So there's gotta be lube around here somewhere,” Dean pants.

“Damn,” Cas agrees, and they look around the space they're in with something like panic.

Uncalled for, of course, because this is _Gabriel's_ hotel. There's actually several small cabinet doors and drawers custom-built into the sides of the arched structure they're ensconsced underneath. In the cabinets, there are... toys, and, um. Cas eyes it all warily. Each item is shrink-wrapped, clearly unused and meant to be either disposed of or kept by whoever chooses to open one. They don't look like low-end toys, either. This is a seriously expensive in-room service, he thinks. Then he idly wonders what this suite would cost if he weren't getting a free stay as a gift, and shuts that line of thought down because it involves thinking about other people renting this suite and doing. Things.

Dean hits the lube jackpot in one cabinet, however, and says, “Damn, I didn't even know there were this many brands.”

But one of them is the kind Dean uses and he grabs it, tosses it nearby on the sheets. Cas is oddly relieved to see that the brand he habitually buys isn't there. Because it means Gabriel's apparently infinite surveillance doesn't extend _everywhere._

Dean brings his focus back with hands running up under his shirt, which had gone from tucked to untucked to partially unbuttoned a couple of hours and shots ago. Cas' belly flutters under Dean's touch; he tugs up Dean's shirt, too, thumbs immediately finding nipples and rubbing firm arcs over them. Dean's breath hitches and he fumbles a button.

It takes a few tries but he gets Cas' shirt open and dives in to mouth over Cas' torso, tasting the salt, probably some hint of rum imparted in sweat and the alcohol smell that still lingers. Dean moves to a nipple, and though Cas' aren't as sensitive as Dean's, Dean tongues the nub and plucks lightly with his teeth until even Cas is gasping. Cas scrapes his bitten nails down and up Dean's sides in response, making Dean jerk and break from Cas' chest.

“We gettin' naked here or what?” Dean asks breathlessly, grinning, and Cas makes a concerted effort to snark. He raises an eyebrow and says, “It's _my_ birthday, do I have to do all the work?”

Dean barks a laugh and shrugs his henley up and off in one smooth move that makes Cas ache to be able to see his broad shoulders flexing with the motion. He compromises by putting his hands on Dean's shoulders and running further down over the top of his back. Dean flexes again obligingly and Cas hums with the surge of lust he feels towards Dean's unfairly gorgeous body. He lusts for Dean as a person, of course, all the time, but sometimes just the liquid glide of skin and muscle and tan and freckle and...

Dean taps his forehead. “Where you goin'?”

“You,” says Cas faintly, “are so sexy, you are sex. You're made of sex. It's gonna kill me.” Okay, he's still drunker than he thought and he shouldn't be allowed to word-vomit. But Dean doesn't seem to mind one bit.

He flexes again and rolls his back, grinds up his hips into the vee of Cas' splayed legs. His goddamn forearms where they rest against the bed contain more sex appeal than Cas has in his entire body. Though Dean, as if reading his mind, shoots him down: “You don't even know what you do to me, Cas. God, you're hot.”

Cas looks down at his torso, doesn't see it, not really. But he sees a shirt that doesn't need to be there, so he strips out of it and tosses it in the general direction Dean's shirt went before. Dean laughs, low, and shifts to take his weight and free his arms so he can go to work on his pants.

Cas makes short work of his own belt, button and fly. There's an awkward scramble, though, involving some rolling over each other, to get pants and socks properly off and thrown haphazardly to the end of the bed. Cas finally ends up back on top and throws his leg over Dean's, thigh pressed close to Dean's crotch so he can rut up against it, and he does, without hesitation.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes, pulling his face down close to suck his already- swollen bottom lip into his mouth for more abuse. Cas moans into it, fights for dominance in the kiss, moving his head and angling until he can fuck his tongue into Dean's mouth without resistance. Dean all but melts under him, grinding up hard, erection bulging the front of his boxer briefs.

When Cas lets him up for air, he dips his fingers below the elastic of his own underwear, ready for this, so damn ready he's afraid this isn't going to last very long.

“Cas,” Dean gasps, and Cas doesn't think it more than a general sort of encouragement until Dean keeps going: “Cas, Cas, hold up, stop for a sec.”

That never happens, Dean asking to stop or slow down, not since that one time, and Cas freezes.

Dean rubs his hands up Cas' hips and waist and sides, shaking his head, smiling. “No, calm down,” he says. “Not freaking.”

Cas relaxes into the stroking, thumbs still hooked in elastic. “Okay.”

“So,” Dean says, taking a shaky breath, “'s time for your birthday present, huh?”

“Thought we were already halfway into my birthday present,” Cas says.

“I, uh.” Dean swallows. “So. Do you wanna fuck me?”

Cas feels like everything slows and also bursts with _too much._ A scalding jolt of arousal hits him right in the spine at the very though, but at the same time his frantic need to get Dean naked ebbs to take second place to a wordless panic.

“I – Dean,” Cas attempts. “Dean, what...”

“I mean, I want you to fuck me. I already want it. So I'm askin' if you're game.”

“It isn't -” Cas can't seem to get a sentence started that he can also finish. “It shouldn't be – you don't have to –“

“I don't have to.” Dean pushes up on his elbows under Cas, looking earnest but also maybe edging towards annoyed. “I want to.”

“But, a present, Dean, really?” Cas can't quite articulate why it doesn't sit right with him. Maybe because it's like it isn't entirely on Dean's terms, like maybe he was just trying to pick something to give Cas that would be meaningful and this was... “It isn't – a commodity,” Cas says, “it isn't – a thing you can trade to me, give to me, it should be something you own.” He squints at Dean, trying to will him to understand.

“That's not – ugh.” Dean rolls his eyes back, clearly fighting against argumentativeness. “It's not about you,” he says finally. “I'm not taking this thing about me and making it about you. I get that, that it's like I'm giving you a responsibility. But I'm not. _I_ want it. I've wanted it back for goddamn _ever,_ Cas, I want everything back that got taken from me. I just – I haven't wanted to ask anyone until you. So I guess your present isn't the thing, really, but the asking.”

Cas reels. “Oh,” he says quietly. Dean's giving him trust. Dean's giving him _trust._ “Oh.”  
“So. Wanna?”

Cas swallows hard. Suddenly he wishes there was some bottled water in these magical mystery cabinets. “Yes,” he rasps. “If you do.”

Dean crashes their mouths together, kissing as deep and needy as he ever has. Cas gives back in kind, until his mouth is sore, until he knows every chip and divot along the edges of Dean's teeth.

“Okay,” Dean gasps into him, wriggling under him, and Cas pushes up to look down at Dean lying all debauched on the sheets and shimmying out of his underwear and the sight lights a fucking bonfire. Cas yanks his own shorts down, is out of them lightning-fast, and already grabbing up the lube from where Dean dropped it.

He reminds himself that it may be a while yet. He reminds himself that this has to be the most careful he's ever been. He reminds himself of everything Dean went through, or at least what he knows of it, and resolves to go so slow, so slow. Right. Fingers slicked, he jerks Dean's cock a few times while Dean presses his head back into the mattress and groans. He slides his hand around Dean's balls, back to – to meet something silicone and unexpected.

“So, uh, happy birthday,” Dean huffs, downright giggly at this point.

“Are you wearing,” Cas says, stunned.

“I've been practicing?” Dean says, almost a question, and laughs.

The flanged end of the plug is a light blue. Cas rubs his finger around the edge, eliciting a gasp from Dean. “You've had this in all night,” Cas says. _“All night.”_

Dean moans and Cas digs his index finger in a little deeper, pressing into the lube-damp skin beneath the edge of the plug.

“What if I'd said no?” Cas asks.

Dean lets out a little gasp. “I'd uh. Guess I'd've fucked you into next Tuesday with a plug up my ass and that would'a been pretty fuckin' good too. Win-win.”

Cas fumbles for the lube, gets some more on his fingers, and presses in seriously around the edges of the plug.

“Ah!” Dean arches his back. “Fuck, fuck, I'm not that loose yet.” Not that his erection has any visible objection.

Cas backs off the idea of getting a finger in next to the plug and grips it instead, a little difficult with slick everywhere but he gets a grip and twists it, just spins it around. Dean's eyes are half-lidded with pleasure, belly fluttering with uneven breathing. Cas starts to gently, gently pull the toy back out.

Dean sucks in a breath but judders in a way that seems to be more pleasure than pain. There's a neck to the toy not much wider than two fingers, which has been holding Dean _open all night_ Cas still can't get over that. The body of the toy is wider, though, and Dean fights to relax into it.

At last, it slides free and Dean whines. Just the barest breath of a whine on an exhale, but it's there. And Cas knows then that this is an incredibly good idea and he doesn't give a shit how long it takes to get Dean ready and rearing to go.

He drips yet more lube onto the plug, which is warm with Dean's body heat and that little snippet probably shouldn't turn Cas on so much. He leans in, kisses Dean's thigh, licks over random patches of skin and rubs random circles with his free thumb, all the while working the plug back into Dean again.

Dean relaxes into it faster this time. When the wide part goes in he releases a breath like it's been punched out of him and cants his hips like he's begging for it to keep moving. Cas pulls it out again, a little faster, not as much time to adjust. Dean practically writhes.

“Yeah,” he pants. “Yeah, that's, yes, Cas.”

He moves his hands down, one gripping the base of his cock, the other going further to finger the edge of the stretched skin, to rub against the place where the toy disappears into his body. Cas can only groan at the sight.

“Wan' this to be you,” Dean murmurs, getting his fingers well into the mess of lube until he can slide them with ease. “Wan' you so goddamn much, Cas.”

“Dean,” Cas says weakly.

“'Preciate the prep, though,” Dean adds, and he sounds more drunk on pleasure now than he sounded drunk on actual alcohol earlier.

“Yes,” says Cas earnestly. “Anything.”

Dean tips his head back and with an amazing ripple of calm he pushes one finger into his own hole along with the plug.

“Christ,” Cas curses, and he hasn't blasphemed involuntarily in _years._

Cas pulls the plug out completely and shoves two fingers in next to Dean's one. Dean makes a noise between a hiss and a moan, bucking into the intrusion. His hole is sloppy with lube and flushed dark with extended stretching, and there's hardly any resistance now. Cas wiggles a third finger in between his and Dean's, making it four altogether, and Dean cries out, pants hard. “Fu-uck,” he laugh-gasps. “You gonna fuck me sometime before your next birthday, old man?”

Cas bites the inside of his thigh and Dean thrashes. His grip on his own cock is prevention, now, not stimulation.

“How do you want it,” Cas asks, smoothing a hand slippery over the bite mark.

 _“Now,”_ Dean growls.

Cas' head is swimming but he pushes himself up over Dean, fingers losing some purchase in his hole – he goes back to two, because it's easier to angle his wrist, and Dean slides his own out, digs his slick fingers into the flesh of Cas' ass, pulling him in.

Cas leans over Dean but keeps their groins separate, shoves his fingers in as far as he can and presses unrelenting on the hot, hot walls of Dean's insides, but he doesn't move them while he leans his face close to Dean's and says, wavery but as innocent-casual as he can manage: “How do you want it, Dean?”

The sound Dean makes is just broken, now. His eyes are watering, not, Cas thinks, from actual tears, but from being overwhelmed. He's been stimulated and hiding it for _hours._ Now he can't come until he forms words, and it's so goddamn unfair. Cas knows it – this isn't new territory for them, Dean's already said in more sober moments that he's totally okay with a little denial, more than okay, but this is as wrecked as Cas has ever gotten Dean and still withheld. Cas' stomach flutters with a vague uncertainty, but Dean's – Dean's dictating this, he reminds himself. They picked out a couple of safewords months ago. Never needed to use them, but Cas can't let himself doubt that Dean _will_ use one if he needs to.

“Hard,” Dean finally says. “Not slow, Cas, please. I can't.”

Cas kisses him in acknowledgement and, making another decision last-minute, he rolls off of Dean.

This time Dean's yelp isn't so much startled as it is nearly angry. Cas doesn't give him a second to question it, just yanks Dean over, tugging on his opposite arm so he has to roll over, too, and then dragging Dean's leg by the knee. Dean gets the picture and straddles Cas' waist, pushes down almost instantly. Cas' cock rubs up between his cheeks; hands trembling, Cas slip-slides a grip on Dean's ass, pulls him open. Dean grabs his dick, gets it lined up, and sinks.

He's almost silent, just little whuffs of breath and quivering muscles. Cas lets go of his ass when he's taken Cas halfway, which only makes it tighter and hotter and – fuck, fuck, Cas meant to wait to move until Dean had bottomed out, but he jerks up a little and Dean's breath stutters.

Cas isn't gonna say out loud that he wanted this position because no matter how much trust Dean puts in him, Cas doesn't want to take him for the first time from above, as another looming presence, a heavy body holding him down, trapping him. He doesn't know if Dean would even see it that way, but he doesn't want to risk that it would pan out like that. And yes, yes, he wants to get Dean under him and pliant and arching and just pound him until there's nothing but skin and impact. It's harder to do that like this, because they'll both wear out faster and Cas' neck won't thank him in a few hours, nor will Dean's legs. But this, this... he won't risk _anything_ with Dean, he won't risk any tiny fraction of Dean's comfort or trust.

It's either a completely appropriate or ridiculously innappropriate time to realize that he's hopelessly in love with Dean Winchester.

The thought blindsides him right when Dean's starting to grind down in little bounces, getting used to the feeling. He's still rock hard but not, Cas thinks, quite so on-the-edge close. Cas is so busy trying to fight off the unbearable tightness and heat of Dean clenching and sliding around him that between the poorly timed (or apropos?) revelation and taking one good look at Dean's nearly closed- eyed expression of transcendant pleasure and, and happiness? Is that happiness? Why wouldn't it be happiness, though? But it's more than just lust, and – and Cas is overthinking _during sex,_ for fuck's sake, he can't _stop_ overthinking but Dean's _face_ and Cas just, he just. He can't. He can't. He loves Dean _so much._

He pulls in his knees, braces his feet into the mattress and shoves up, sharp and sudden.

“Fuck!” Dean's eyes snap open but he's still got that glazed, middle-distance look, like he's looking at Cas from further away than he is. Cas gets a good grip on his hips and does it again, rhythmless, and Dean chokes on it. “Fuck,” he says weakly, hands skittering over Cas' chest. “Fuh, fff. Ah, ah, ah, Cas, Cas...” Cas provides punctuation in the form of fucking into Dean as fast as he can while still being reasonably smooth about it.

Dean recovers from the initial jolt enough to get into sync after a few thrusts, bouncing down to meet Cas' up-thrust every time, and after a few of these he's both completely vocal and completely incoherent. He rolls his head back, hair just brushing the underside of the loft floor above, and somewhere in the gasped curses and wordless noises he also manages Cas' name, quite a lot. Over and over, at times, a mantra. Cas wishes kissing was easier from this position because he wants to swallow all those sounds.

To be honest, when it ends, Cas is only amazed either of them lasted as long as they did. Dean shifts position, bracing his hands more firmly on Cas' chest, leaning forward and shuffling his knees further apart so Cas' angle is deeper and nails his prostate every time. Dean's vocalization is reduced to sob-like, too- shallow inhales. He meets Cas' eyes, the green of his own nearly blown out completely black. He clenches as hard as he can.

Cas comes with a helpless cry. He'd wanted to hang on until Dean came, he really had, but it's asking the impossible. Dean's chest is flushed pink and his freckles stand out sharply against his reddened face; his lips are parted, his nipples are hard, there's a slick of lube in the shape of Cas' fingers halfway up his chest, his hair is spiked with sweat, his dick is leaking precome untouched. Orgasm sweeps up Cas' spine and curls his toes and he nearly closes his eyes on instinct but he keeps watching Dean's flickering look of smug satisfaction instead. He realizes as he's riding the aftershocks that he's chanting Dean's name, too.

Dean seems to be resolutely not touching himself, just scrabbling into Cas' chest and riding until Cas is as spent as it's possible to get. It's sooner than Cas wants, too, but at last he really, really needs Dean to get off – well, double entendre not intended, but yes, he needs Dean to get off in every way.

He pushes Dean up by the thighs, which are quaking under his hands, until Dean capitulates with a grunt and lifts off of Cas' spent cock. Cas immediately surges up to claim that bitten lower lip and lick into Dean's mouth, while moving both hands to Dean's cock and enveloping, tugging, thumbing over the slit, working it hard and fast. Dean can't even respond to the kiss, just gasps and jerks into Cas' grip.

Cas moves one hand back to Dean's hole where Cas' come is just starting to slide out and shoves three fingers right in. Dean yells and finally comes, hard. Cas doesn't relent on his dick or his prostate all the while Dean spills on his chest, grabbing at Cas' shoulders and neck and pulling every bit of hair he can get his hands into.

“Hey,” Cas murmurs as Dean breathes through the aftermath, twitching, falling apart. “Hey.” He gives Dean's softening cock one more stroke before moving both hands to Dean's lower back instead. Dean sinks onto his thighs again, boneless and heavy, head lowered.

Dean's breathing finally evens out and he rasps, “Hey yourself.”

Cas breathes a laugh. “Good?”

Dean closes his eyes and grins. “You were there,” he says. “You tell me.”

Cas rubs thumbs into the bumps of his spine and smiles against his chest. “Good,” he mumbles.

“You're fucking right good,” Dean mutters. “ _Good,_ he says. _Fuck._ ” He winces and shifts to the side. “Ah, cramp.”

Cas moves his legs and helps lever Dean off of him. They collapse side by side. Dean puts a hand to Cas' temple and looks like he's thinking about kissing but in the end decides he's too tired for it. Cas can't argue with that.

There don't seem to be any words. Happily there also isn't any particular discomfort in having no words. Dean studies Cas' lips in the silence and Cas traces the familiar constellation of Dean's freckles, which are fading back into near-invisibility as his color returns to normal. Between the lingering heaviness of alcohol and the drifting euphoria of oxytocin, Cas can barely contemplate moving.

There is other discomfort after a while, though, and Cas reevaluates how much he doesn't want to move against the new stickiness. There was a _lot_ of lube. Everywhere is a tacky mess. Add in the sweat and the wet spot is more of a wet half of the bed.

Cas finally groans and sits up. The air is a little nippy now, too, that he's naked and not too preoccupied to pay attention.

Dean has long since closed his eyes. “Love you, babe, but I'm not getting up,” he mumbles.

Cas stills. Is that the first time he's said it? Now that he thinks back, Cas isn't sure. No, it isn't. These little moments, the joking way Dean uses “love you” before declaring his obstinance or his intent to be an asshole. Cas hasn't really registered them as real “love you”s. But maybe they have been all along.

“Love you, too,” Cas says casually, and it's definitely the first time he's said it back.

There's a beat. Then Dean's pushing up beside him and wrapping arms around him and nosing into the side of his neck. “You big sap,” he sighs.

“I do love you,” Cas says quietly. “Dean...”

“I know,” says Dean. “You dork.”

Cas can't think of anything to say.

It might be nice to explore the potential of the huge tub but Cas is too deliriously tired to consider it. He staggers to the bathroom, drinks down two glasses of water before he can even think about anything else. He really doesn't want to be hungover. This place is too nice to waste on being hungover.

Towel and water in hand, he goes back to the bed, blinking heavy against sleepiness so strong he's dizzy with it. Dean's sprawled half on his side, snoring faintly, the bastard.

Cas feels no guilt in climbing over him, shaking him awake and making him sit up, grumbling, to drink water and accept a thorough toweling. The bed is blessedly huge and Cas pulls back the covers on the far side of it, away from any dampness. He crawls in, yanking on Dean's wrist until the man grudgingly gets mobile enough to scoot over and join him. Under the crisp dry sheets and cloudlike comforter, consciousness is suddenly a dream state, a surreal floating place of total physical and emotional contentment. Dean turns over, presses back into Cas' chest. Cas hugs him close around the middle and it's like holding a big, warm stuffed animal with how pliant Dean is. In fact – yes, faint snores already.

Cas nuzzles into the back of Dean's neck, inhales the faint aroma of cologne and drink and whatever it is that is the distinct smell of _Dean,_ and is asleep within seconds.

\---

The morning comes with only a mild headache, knocked out quickly enough by some of the ibuprofen he finds in a bathroom cabinet. This place is stocked like a fully lived-in home. Cas peruses the bathroom shelves some more while Dean finally rolls himself out of the bed and staggers into the bathroom to yawn and piss and steal some of the ibuprofen for himself.

True to Gabriel's word, there's a duffel bag just inside the bedroom door packed with their neatly folded clothes – only wear at home stuff, no jackets, no button-downs, no shoes. _No working!!!_ might as well be sharpied on the bag. Cas just gets out fresh underwear for both of them and sidles up to Dean who's clambered back onto the bed to check out the contents of the Sexy Time Cabinets more thoroughly.

“There's a whole drawer of wet wipes and Kleenex in here,” he says, pulling open doors. “You didn't even have to get up, you killjoy.”

Cas takes his shoulders from behind, kneads into them. “I want a shower,” he says simply.

Dean stills. “Want company?”

“I don't know, it might be distracting.”

“How many times have you thought about checking your email this morning?”

Cas hesitates.

“Yeah,” says Dean, “I think you need some distracting.”

Which is how Cas ends up in the bathroom deciphering the controls Dean's deemed worthy of a small aircraft while Dean follows him, then runs back to the bedroom and returns a minute later after a cry of “yes!” He bumps into Cas, rubs up on his side, and waves a small tube in front of his face. “Waterproof,” he says.

So maybe the deliciously hot, Olympic-sized bath involves a lot more of Cas bending Dean over the side of the tub and fucking him speechless all over again than it involves actual bathing. Who cares.

Cas makes sure Dean comes first this time; it's almost as urgent as last night, with Dean always begging for a more punishing pace. Dean muffles his cries of climax into his forearms where they're braced against the smooth stone edge of the tub. When Cas slows and moves to pull out, Dean shakes his lowered head sharply, reaches back over his shoulder to flail blindly for any part of Cas he can reach. He finds Cas' ear and cheek. “Go,” Dean pants. “Come on, come in me. Come on.”

So Cas tries to keep the pace tame for Dean's oversensitized sake, but between the hot water and the liberal application of waterproof lube and how open and loose Dean already is, Cas thinks he'd have to get pretty damn rough before he'd actually be _hurting_ Dean. But he knows Dean's gonna feel this later, and that thought plus the sight of all the sucked-deep marks he's left all over the back of Dean's neck and the tops of his shoulders is finally what pushes him over the edge.

After a post-coital minute of mouthing at Dean's shoulder and composing himself, Cas pulls out. Even underwater he can still hear the obscene, slick sound of it. Dean sighs. It's entirely unfair, Cas thinks, how many things about Dean are a turn-on _after_ the point. He just fixes the relaxed set of Dean's shoulders and the abused swell of his ass in his memory to draw on later.

At last Dean turns around within the cage of Cas' arms. His expression is lax, blissed out, and he kisses Cas sloppy and slow, sinking down into the water to his shoulders and pulling Cas down with him.

“We have got,” Dean says into his mouth, “to figure out a way to steal this tub.”

Cas laughs but doesn't disagree.

As enticing as is the idea of staying in the water forever, Cas isn't that keen on soaking up jizz and lube instead of actually getting clean. Dean calls him a spoilsport but is the one who eventually figures out the shower function. The spray coming from all directions really should not feel as good as it does. Nor should Dean's hands rubbing shower gel over his shoulders and down his back and the backs of his thighs. Cas' whole body is thrumming with warmth and contentment.

Is this what normal couples do, he wonders, is this what it's supposed to be like? He almost wishes he'd done things like this for Amelia, given her physical pleasure in some non-sexual way, like washing her hair or giving her backrubs. But then he thinks that maybe that would have made the marriage last longer and, counterintuitive as it is, that would have been a bad thing. He feels guilty, he supposes, for letting misery overtake them both where it could have been avoided. But the marriage needed to end and the misery was the needed impetus. It's hard to break himself of the habit of thinking of the divorce as a personal failing. Just because it failed some sort of arbitrary social test doesn't mean it was wrong.

He's literally never been so happy he got divorced. He reminds himself of that over and over while he returns the favor of soaping Dean's back. Dean arches obligingly; _so_ damn happy he's divorced. God, the time he's wasted. He would almost wish the marriage had ended sooner, but then, he wouldn't want to change any of the details in the chain of chance events that led to him being in the Roadhouse on that particular night, in that particular reckless mood.

Clean, clothed (over Dean's token protest, though he's already eyeing up the thick, soft bathrobes like he's deciding which ones are going to mysteriously vanish), sober, and far from ready for another round, Cas and Dean finally – finally – have a look around the suite in the full light of day.

And it is the full light, too, once they've drawn back the curtains in the living area. The view over the city – which Cas has never found particularly attractive from ground level – is actually almost breathtaking. Cas hadn't paid attention to what floor they're on but they must be near the top of the building. He can see the bay, just a gray-blue blur on the horizon.

Cas becomes aware of how hungry he is at about the same time Dean starts complaining about the same thing. Cas goes to investigate the little kitchenette while Dean flops onto the overstuffed sofa with the black folder from the hall table – room service options. Cas is wary about looking through it since he has no doubt Gabriel wasn't exaggerating about there being more than just food available.

Somehow it's a relief to find that the fridge is empty except for some bottles of expensive branded water which Cas ignores. It already feels alarmingly like squatting, being in this just-shy-of-lived-in place. He knows Gabe is all about sparing no expense, but Cas has serious limits of what he finds weird and uncomfortable. A high degree of luxury is one of those things.

There's coffee in a cabinet, though, and that he'll take without hesitation. He gets it going while Dean starts calling at him from the couch.

“What d'you want for breakfast? There's abso-freaking-lutely everything on here. Why the hell is rice and miso on the breakfast menu?”

Cas goes to lean over the back of the couch and read over Dean's shoulder. “It's a standard Japanese breakfast; it's really very nice...”

“You can't have it,” Dean says curtly.

“You just asked what I wanted.”

“I have veto power over anything that isn't waffles.”

Cas grins. “I thought this was _my_ extended birthday present?”

Dean casts a glare over his shoulder.

“I would love some waffles,” Cas says graciously.

It ends up being a lot more than waffles – Dean orders just about everything that's remotely considered a breakfast food in the western hemisphere, and it shows up within fifteen minutes fresh-made and steaming – but Cas can't complain, because for one thing he's not paying and for another it's all absurdly delicious. Cas is pretty sure it isn't just that he's starving. It really is that good.

Dean flips on the TV while Cas stuffs his face with eggs, sausage, fried potatoes and fresh pineapple (Dean makes a face at him for that last one but Cas points out that he's the one who ordered the fruit and Dean says he only did it because strawberries are traditional Sexy Vacation food and Cas laughs at him with his mouth full). Dean immediately gets more invested in exploring the menu options than actually watching anything. Cas has to grudgingly inform him that porn is the only thing not on the house, about which Dean complains immediately and loudly. Cas asks very seriously if it's because he's not good enough and Dean splutters and backtracks and tries to explain the artistic merit of porn until Cas shuts him up with a laughing, pineapple-flavored kiss. They end up making out over the remains of breakfast while the TV eventually blinks back to the channel it'd been on to start with, which is some kind of home improvement thing. That just makes them both laugh harder and ignore it more.

“Seriously,” Dean says after a while. “I just like porn, it's not an inadequacy thing.”

“Dean, if I hadn't figured that out already we wouldn't have made it this long.”

“You're not weirded out by that?”

“I have spanked you harder than I've hit people in actual violence. The fact that you get a kick out of awful plots leading to physically improbable sex set to a painfully bad soundtrack is the least strange thing I've adjusted to in being with you.”

“Okay.” Dean makes a considering face, then seems to accept the answer. “Cool. I dunno, it's not how dumb or unlikely it is, I guess it's just a kind of... solidarity.”

“It makes you feel normal?”

“Yeah. That's weird as shit, isn't it.”

“No.” Cas distinctly remembers the first time he'd seen two men kiss on screen. It had been a lightning bolt, a voice from heaven, if he still believed in that. And the lack of reaction from the people around him had been another revelation entirely.

“I mean, sex is weird,” Dean's saying. “It's not all that much to look at. Tab A, slot B porn is pretty boring. And I know the plots – if you can even call them plots, the excuses – are usually awful. But, I don't know. Sex is fun. I like watching people have fun. I can tell when the actors aren't into it and that's boring as hell.”

“You really don't have to justify yourself,” Cas says, but he's actually quite happy to know all of this about Dean's thought process.

“You're not inadequate,” Dean says earnestly.

“If you keep protesting I'm going to start to question that,” Cas teases.

Dean pushes up and turns to straddle Cas' thighs. “You,” he says, low, “are real, which is better than porn. And I know you're real because I can still feel the ache in my ass.” By the end of the sentence he's barely audible, mouth just touching Cas'.

“Truly, your ass trumps every philosophers' answer to the question of reality,” Cas murmurs.

“My ass is the answer to everything.”

Cas snorts. They devolve into making out some more.

It should get dull after a while, but morning and noon pass in a dreamy blur of kissing and hair-tugging and watching a ridiculous amount of bad television - first Dean finds a soap about which he knows a startling amount of the plot, then Cas steals the remote and settles it on some world-traveling food show. His intent to gross Dean out with natto or fermented sheep's eyeballs or something backfires when the show ends up being about sweets and Dean starts moaning about everything that even remotely resembles pie. In the end Cas is forced to promise that unreasonable quantities of pie will happen before the impromptu vacation is over.

Cas eventually needs to get up and move around – he kind of itches to go for a run, but he wouldn't put Dean through that trauma. He belatedly remembers what Gabriel told him about the bookshelves and starts making his way around the room to check them out while Dean flips through the black folder some more and half-watches Aliens on TV. There's nothing on the shelves Cas would want to steal - it's all classics in nice, matching hardcover editions, nothing he doesn't already own in a beaten old paperback copy.

He follows a shelf along towards the bedroom door and remembers one more place they haven't checked out: the loft above the bed.

Dean'll yell if he wants Cas. Cas leaves him to his entertainment and heads into the bedroom.

The sheets are unkempt, the comforter half lying on the floor. Cas' face warms a little self-consciously, sense impressions of the night before flitting through his mind and ghosting over his skin. He pulls the comforter back onto the end of the bed, folded in half. It occurs to him that the cleaning staff will probably come in some time soon if they don't put out a sign. The idea of another person intruding on this bubble of impossible, perfect solitude grips him with panic for a moment... but he makes himself think about it, adjust to the likelihood, and decides that the sheets need changing, anyway. He can deal with it when it happens.

He looks up into the shadowed loft space. There's a window in here as well; he draws back the curtains, lets in a blast of sunlight. Now he can see the ceiling and he was right, it isn't really higher in here. It's just divided into eye-fooling proportions. He mounts the shallow, open-backed wooden steps that curl up to the shallow loft.

It isn't tall enough to stand in – it couldn't be, even as high-ceilinged as these rooms are. But as he half-crouches on the top step, Cas feels like he's been punched in the aesthetics. It's _perfect._ There's a squashy, overstuffed ottoman against the wall, with a shallow table (its legs can't be more than a foot high) and a squat lamp next to it. There's a scattering of pillows on the seat and the floor, not uncomfortable, upholstered throw pillows but rather an assortment of big, soft down pillows, little beanbag cylinder pillows, flannel-covered neck pillows. There's also a knitted throw folded on the ottoman. All the components of a really good nest.

And on the back wall, barely even visible from the floor level, there are recessed bookshelves. There are trinkets on some, a large printer's loupe for magnification, and of course more of the hardback classics from the rest of the suite. One shelf contains what at a glance Cas thinks is the entire works of Dickens in one enormous, matching set all bound in blue leather that must have cost a serious chunk of cash. Cas' thrift store copy of A Tale of Two Cities has no front cover and was once ripped completely in half and bound back together with a careful strip of duct tape over the spine.

On the shelf closest to what would be eye-level if one were lounging in the pouf-and-pillow nest is a stack of book-shaped objects wrapped in brightly colored paper. There's also a small pile of envelopes. Propped in front of this secret gift cache is a folded piece of Casa-logo'd stationery bearing Gabriel's sloppy, loopy handwriting. It simply says _'Castiel.'_

\---

Over an hour later, Dean finds him.

“Hey, Cas? Where the hell'd you go? Listen, are we chilling in here all day or did you want to check out any of the other stuff downstairs? It's not all kinky shit, there's a – oh, hey.”

Dean's voice had been getting closer, and how his head appears at the top of the stairs into the little loft.

Cas looks over at him in time to catch the way he goes sixty to zero, his light, curious expression plummeting to tense worry in the space of a blink.

“Hey,” Dean says, pulling himself up into the loft and crouching by where Cas is sitting cross-legged on the ottoman. “Whoa, hey, what?”

Cas is already shaking his head, waving one hand, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of the other. “No, I'm fine,” he croaks. “I'm fine. 'S'okay.”

Dean's still worried, and now also bewildered. “What?”

Wordlessly, Cas points at the stack of things on the short table with the lamp. Under the table is a pile of crumpled pieces of brightly colored paper. He's spent the last ten minutes with his elbow on his knee, chin in hand, staring at the little pile of gifts with blurring eyes. More accurately, he's been staring at the way the lamplight warms the woodgrain of the tabletop. And he's been both thinking, and trying not to think.

Dean reaches out to touch Cas' knee, looking at the books and cards. “Is it – is this private, d'you want me to...”

Cas shakes his head, sniffs heavily and sighs with a smile. “No, you can look.”

Hesitantly, Dean reaches out and turns the stack of books so he can see the spines. His eyebrows shoot up instantly and Cas laughs, knowing what he's seen. Cas picks up _The Joy of Gay Sex,_ opens it to the inside cover and passes it over.

Dean reads quickly and barks a sudden laugh, hand flying to his mouth. Cas closes his eyes. Amelia had written, _“You aren't the only one who made it to nearly thirty without knowing how awesome sex with a man could be! Hope you're making up for lost time. Love you, miss you, never gonna leave you. Your ex-wife & partner in crime, Ames.”_

When Dean looks up, eyes twinkling, Cas just shakes his head. “I'm going to murder Gabriel for letting me believe for so long that he was an irredeemable asshole,” he says. He waves vaguely at the rest of the pile, indicating for Dean to have a look.

For a while, it's quiet, just the sounds of Dean settling into a more comfortable seat and the rustle of paper and cardstock. Cas looks out across the room at the window, chin on his hand again. He doesn't need to look at what Dean's looking at.

There's a Kathy Reichs book from his forensics class, together with a card signed by them all and a note from Jo saying _“We know you're not a criminologist, but you're still our Bones! Love from all your scrubby interns. Thanks for putting up with us.”_ There's a card from Sam's class as well, and one from the rest of the department faculty. Cas imagines that Sam and Annie are probably to blame for collecting all the scribbled 'happy birthdays!' and signatures for those.

There are two books from Ava Wilson, both one-off prints from the school print shop (it smells of ink and acetone and consumes the basement of the computer lab). One is a rough mockup of their collaborative thesis. Ava's left an effusive note in the front cover about how honored she's been to write with him and how she'll owe him her doctorate and etc etc etc, all of which hero-worship Cas really wishes he could disabuse her of. The other is a book of his papers that have been published in various anthropology journals over the years, plus his own doctoral thesis which he'd forgotten was still on file somewhere at the school. It's been lovingly laid out, with neat, professional pagination and headers and a table of contents and index. The dedication page says “For the author. You deserve it.” There's an acknowledgements page that lists the assistance of nearly everyone he knows from the school. Cas isn't sure who masterminded this one.

And there's a drawing from Claire, who has no artistic talent to speak of, but is enthusiastic with a box of crayons anyway. There's a post-it note from Ames stuck to the picture that just says “FYI.” The drawing is of their house, with four adult figures (identifiable only by hair: yellow, bright red, dark brown, light brown) ranged in the yard and one short blonde one by what is barely recognizable as a purple bike. Red and black scribbles in the corner are carefully labeled “Tony” and “Baby.”

After a while, Cas looks back at Dean, who's hunched over drawn-up legs, chin on one knee, holding the drawing. He looks suspiciously bright-eyed.

Dean glances sidelong at Cas and carefully puts the drawing down on the stack of books. “Only other little kid to draw a stick-figure me like that was Sammy,” he says, trying to grin, but it's distinctly watery.

Cas slides off the ottoman to the floor next to Dean and pulls him into a hug. Dean laughs shortly and hugs back.

Eyes closed, Cas breathes against Dean's neck. After a while, he says, “Dean.”

“Mm.”

“This is...” Cas moves back a little, puts his palm over Dean's cheek but doesn't look him in the eye. “I don't... see where this ends. I'd like it not to end.” He's been afraid to say anything like this, and he still is afraid, but for the first time, hope is stronger.

Dean grasps Cas' wrist. His mouth is barely parted, expression tight, like – not like he's disagreeing, but like he feels the same fear and the same hope. Maybe. “I dunno,” he says at last. “I don't either.”

It's not a declaration of permanence, but it's – indefiniteness. In the way they drifted from hooking up to dating, somehow they've sailed on through into the deeper waters of just... existing. Together.

“I love you,” Cas says, and he's not really trying to be sappy or have A Moment, he's just trying to _explain._ His brows are furrowed. He leans back enough to actually look Dean in the eye, tilts his head in that interrogative way. “I don't know what happened here, Dean. I don't – it seems like there should have been more... hardship. Searching.”

Dean smirks. “Balthazar wasn't a hardship?” But when Cas glares his grin softens. “I know,” he says. “I get it. Look... Lisa... Lisa was a weekend thing. A really bendy... gymnastic weekend thing.” He quirks an eyebrow at the memory and Cas snorts. “And 'cause of how it started, I didn't realize...” Dean's getting it out so slowly, thinking hard on every word, and he rubs his jaw with one hand, scratches at stubble. “It could've gone a lot longer, I think. It could have been a really... long-term thing. Not anymore,” he adds, shooting a glance at Cas.

Cas shakes his head, understanding.

“I'm just tryin' to say that it was me who didn't let it get deeper like it could've. I think I'm why she doesn't want to know who Ben's dad is. Doesn't really matter if it's me or not, she just doesn't want to _know._ Because if she did, she'd either hafta let me be a parent or tell me I couldn't be.” Dean rests his chin on his knee. “It was me who was scared of how comfortable it was, being with her. I had Sammy to watch out for then and I was scared of the distraction. Guess he doesn't need me tying his shoes and wiping his nose for him anymore.”

“No, but he needs you,” Cas says softly. “You know he's always going to need you.”

Dean shrugs uncomfortably. “I let it go sour with Lise because I didn't think I could have something that was all for me and still be all for him. There just isn't that much of me to go around.”

“There's plenty of you.” Cas reaches out to run fingers through Dean's hair. “There's more heart in you than my entire extended family combined. There's more heart in you than entire nations. And I wouldn't dream of not sharing you with Sam.”

Dean shakes his head, clearly uncomfortable with the praise but yearning for it, too.

“Besides,” says Cas, “he doesn't need you to be _all_ for him. I know he wants you to exist for your own sake, not his. So do I.”

“My own sake's not good enough,” Dean mutters.

Cas' throat tightens. “It is,” he says. “It is. I spent so long thinking I didn't deserve to be saved. Sometimes I still don't.”

“But you're,” Dean protests, lost, “you help people, you change lives, you...”

“I pursued a niche interest selfishly at the expense of my best friend's happiness,” Cas says. “I threw away our young adulthood in misery. I – I hurt other children, I believed awful things for a long time. But it doesn't matter, Dean. It doesn't... I think we deserve to be happy. I _know_ you deserve to be happy.”

“Cas,” Dean says.

“And you make me happy,” Cas presses on, voice a little funny now. His eyes are burning but he won't, he won't.

Dean's face scrunches up too. “Well,” he says, “when I stop making you happy, you get to throw me to the curb.”

“I don't think that's going to happen,” Cas rasps. Almost like an apology. “I think you're stuck with me.”

Dean pulls him tight into another bear hug. “Good,” he mutters. “'Cause you make me happy too.”

\---

They stay in the suite for the rest of that day. They end up back on the sofa, spooning under a blanket, watching Star Wars and ordering up pie and ice cream for dinner. (Dean's idea. Cas can feel the diabetes taking hold.) Cleaning service does show up in the late afternoon, a short, cheerful young woman with a long black braid, wearing jeans and a purple polo with the Casa logo. “Sexy does _not_ have to be the uniform here,” she explains in a heavy Columbian accent, after Dean vaguely gestures at the lack of miniskirt or corset. “Mister Gabriel doesn't care what anyone wears. Have you seen his Hawaiian shirts?” She makes a horrified face.

She's in and out in no time, chatty but not intrusive, and any nerves Cas might have been harboring about interacting with the staff here go right out the window.

“Wha'dyou think, one more day?” Dean murmurs into his hair while the remains of ice cream and crumbs turn into a soggy soup in the bowl on the coffee table. The couch is so absurdly wide that they both fit easily. Cas is beginning to regret reclining so soon after becoming so full of pie.

Cas grunts. “I suppose,” he says, “I could take a little more advantage of Gabriel's generosity.”

“What else are you gonna take advantage of,” Dean says, but the entendre is more sleepy than sultry. Cas laughs.

After a minute, he says, “What's your opinion on somnophilia?”

“Sommawhatnow,” Dean mumbles, clearly on the verge of a pie coma.

“Whoever wakes up first tomorrow wakes the other one up with sex.”

“Fff,” Dean scoffs. “Why you even gotta _ask.”_

“Well, you can't consent when you're asleep.”

“You,” Dean says fondly. “Such a consent whore. Is that your kink? I know there's a kinky bastard in there somewhere and I'm gonna find him.”

Cas turns over so he's facing Dean on the sofa, wiggles his hand down between them. “Consent is not continuous,” he says primly. “I'll always ask. A gentleman asks. For example.” He spreads his hand over Dean's crotch. “May I, pretty please?”

Dean grins, eyes barely open. He squirms his hips, but says, “May you what, baby?”

“Mm.” Cas leans in. “May I,” he rumbles, “work your ass open with my tongue?”

Dean jerks and his eyes open. “Yes,” he all but squeaks.

“Not right now, of course,” Cas says calmly. “When you're asleep.”

“You,” Dean breathes, “little _shit.”_

“You wanted the kinky bastard,” Cas says. “You found him.” But he does relent and press in with the hand between Dean's legs, massaging through the soft knit drawstring pants Dean's been wearing all day.

Dean's pie coma is postponed for a while. Afterwards, though, it's fully dark outside and they're both in the throes of more than just a pie coma. They stagger through getting ready for bed and Cas is asleep almost before he finishes pulling up the fluffy comforter over the freshly changed sheets.

\---


	2. Chapter 2

\---

Cas doesn't know what he was dreaming about, but it was nice – warm, maybe outdoors? And with water, lots of water. There's a confused moment of lucid dreaming where he sort of controls his ability to look around. It's a jumble of color and blur. This isn't – isn't a dream, really, it's – it's -

Suddenly, it's a terrible itching and then nothing; it's falling; it's waking. He jerks awake, eyes snapping open, gritty and still sleep-blurred. A confusion of sound and color and pleasant but unfulfilling sensation takes a moment to resolve itself into Dean's hysterical laughter and a dark ceiling that is altogether too close.

Cas blinks a few times, remembers where he is, then suddenly pushes up on one elbow and squints down the bed.

Dean's doubled over against his hip, wheezing.

“Dean?” Cas croaks.

Dean gathers enough sensibility to say, “You almost kicked me off the bed, you asshole.”

“Wha?”

Dean just smacks his hip and goes back to giggling.

Cas wakes up completely while Dean calms down – there's a sliver of light around the edge of the curtain indicating morning, but Cas is so disoriented from how he woke up that he feels like a groggy mess anyway. Apparently a wakeup blowjob would work a lot better if the sleeping party could be warned to brace against ticklishness. Cas flops back against the pillows and sighs ruefully. “I meant to wake up first,” he grumbles.

“And how exactly were you gonna wake yourself up?” Dean teases, crawling over him.

Cas pinches his arm; Dean snorts; early morning makeouts are an okay way to wake up, too, even if they taste of foul breath and don't last long because both parties need to pee. Somnophilia, Cas decides: better in theory than practice.

\---

As nice as it might be, it's just not physically possible to be having sex every minute of the day. After a post-breakfast, much more awake and alert blowjob, Dean rocks back on his heels and says, “I want to check out the spa.”

“Right this second?” Cas says after a beat, confused and dizzy with orgasm.

“No,” says Dean, pushing to his feet from where he was kneeling on the kitchen floor. They're doing a pretty good job of christening all possible surfaces. Dean's still clothed, but his lounge pants are sharply tented. He leans in to nip at Cas' bottom lip. “You owe me something first,” he says, low.

Cas kisses him deep, tasting himself. After a minute he pulls back and makes a face. “Am I imagining that or does it actually taste pineapply?”

 ---

So it's much later, after round whatever-they're-up-to-now, after a shower and a change of clothes and a couple of episodes of Dirty Jobs overlaid by a heated argument about the relative attractiveness of Mike Rowe and the relative shittiness of Ford trucks, that they return to the topic of leaving the suite.

Cas agrees to it reluctantly, since he doesn't care for social interaction in the best of circumstances, and this is a case of a strange place where he doesn't know anyone and all the cues are skewed to the extra-flirty. Despite recent evidence to the contrary, he's not an overwhelmingly sexual person.

“It's just gonna be, like, a sauna room or something,” Dean shrugs. “I ain't letting anybody put cucumbers on my eyes or shit. We'll scope it out first and leave if you don't wanna stay.”

Cas sighs. There are jeans in the duffel of clothes, thankfully. He feels slightly more armored than he did in thin cotton pajamas.

Getting downstairs is the first adventure, having come upstairs via back routes while less than sober. The staff elevator eludes them and probably wouldn't work without Gabriel's keycard anyway. The normal elevators, when they find them, are blessedly empty.

It's early afternoon on a Saturday. There's a mild bustle of activity on the ground floor - and Cas is astonished at how many businesses there actually are. There's a whole covered plaza down here, a confection of glass and polished slate floors. And apparently they'd also come into the club through the service door because Cas is sure he'd have noticed the tacky-as-shit neon angel wings spread across the darkened glass window front. He makes a face at them.

Out towards the front they enter the more familiar territory of an almost normal looking hotel lobby. There's a cafe over by the sunny window banks with tables and chairs that sprawl outdoors. A few stragglers of the brunch crowd are still loitering, chatting.

Sure they've missed the spa, they turn around. Almost back out of the lobby to the sliding door that leads to the indoor plaza, Dean spots a door in an unassuming niche in the wall with the spa's logo.

Cas edges up to it warily, having expected more fanfare in the presentation. Dean rolls his eyes and pushes him bodily towards the door.

Inside is a small foyer with a gently pattering wall fountain, a rack of brochures, a podium, and a desk chair on which a young woman is gently spinning, chewing gum and reading a book. She jumps up as soon as they enter.

“Hi welcome to Steam how are you today?” It comes out long-practiced and unpunctuated.

“Um,” says Cas.

“Doin' great, you?” Dean extends his hand.

She shakes firmly but her eyes flick between them suddenly like she's realizing something. “Well, thanks. What can I do for you today? Normally we'd check the schedule book but-”

Cas seizes the least bit of a straw. “We don't have an appointment,” he mutters to Dean. “Too bad, we're fine, let's-?”

Dean gives him the bullshit-calling-est look in the history of looks.

“But-” the young woman smiles and presses on, “I've been told to expect VIP guests and I'm sure -”

“Can't be us,” Cas mutters, edging closer to Dean's side. “They're busy.”

“Do you want to go?” Dean asks bluntly, not trying to keep his voice down. Cas gives him a pained look but dithers for more than two seconds, which is all Dean gives him. “Okay, so stop it.” He turns back to the young woman. “Sorry.”

She shakes her head, unperturbed, and offers her hand to Cas as well. “Let's try again,” she says. “I'm Kailani.”

Mid-reluctant handshake, Cas has a brain hiccup born of recently re-reading his own old paper on ancient Polynesian language dissemination. “Chieftain?” he asks, bemused.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Close,” she says, “but no cigar.”

“Oh,” says Cas, recognizing rudeness too late. “I'm sorry, I didn't...”

“Kah-ee, lani,” she enunciates. “Sea and sky. But not bad, angel of Thursday.”

Cas freezes. He feels Dean tense next to him, too.

She grins apologetically. “Couldn't resist. I was trying to say, you are the VIP. You're the boss's brother, and of course we've all seen pictures.”

“You,” Cas says, dumbfounded. “What?”

She gives a little bow of the head in apology. “Gabriel is a very hands-on owner,” she says, smiling. “He's in and out all the time. And he chats like his life depends on it, you know. He loves to brag on his family.”

“He what?” Cas feels like a broken record.

“I'm sorry for the awkwardness,” she hastens to add. “It's just, most of the businesses here got a memo a couple days ago that if you showed up, service is on the house. Or it's on him, rather. Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Gabriel,” Cas struggles to express, “is impossible and should not be allowed to exist.”

She laughs. “Well, I'm glad he does,” she says. “He's a great employer. So, can I interest you in any treatments today? We really aren't busy, if you're concerned about that.”

“Yes,” Dean interrupts before Cas can open his mouth again. “Totally. Whatever you can do to get the stick out of his ass.” He jerks a thumb at Cas.

She laughs again. “Well, we aim for relaxation at all costs. You're-?”

“Oh, I'm not good enough for a memo?” Dean joke-gripes. “Dean Winchester, boss's brother's boyfriend.”

“Nice alliteration,” she says graciously. “It's a pleasure. Follow me?”

So with Dean refusing to let him chicken out, Cas finds himself putting one foot in front of the other and walking into a kind of place he has never been in, led by a welcoming stranger. This seems to be a running theme since he fell in with Dean. They go through a frosted glass door at the back of the little foyer and enter... a room that's much bigger, but not as big as Cas expected. It's oddly cozy. The temperature is significantly warmer than outside. The walls are light green, not an institutional pea green but a slatey, cool tone that makes Cas think of rain. Of course the faintly pitter-pattering fountain sliding down the sides of a rough granite block near the door might also be making him think of rain. There are a lot of plants and the light seems natural, although a glance around doesn't reveal any windows.

The floor is of subtly varying heights, dips and rises graded into each other with shallow steps or slightly curved ramps like miniature bridges. The effect is outdoorsy. One of the broadest shallow depressions in the floor contains a comfortable-looking seating area with poufs and pillows and a long, low sofa on which someone might take a nap if they were so inclined. There's a desk near the door, opposite the side with the granite fountain, at which a young man is sitting and poking idly at a tablet in his hands. He barely looks up when they come in.

“So did you have anything in mind?” Kailani is asking, leading them further in, towards a wall with multiple bamboo-and-paper doors. “Steam room, hot stone, manicure...? I'm a certified acupuncturist as well.”

“No needles,” Cas says immediately. “And I've been told no cucumbers on eyes.” He elbows Dean, who snorts.

Kailani laughs. “That's fine.” She pushes open a door. It's a light, airy space with some low chairs, a table covered with a folded white cloth, doorless cabinets and counters laid out a bit like they'd be in a doctor's office but altogether more welcoming and open. Nothing's hidden, nothing's alarming. Kailani gestures for them to sit and takes a seat nearby, like a consultant.

“So what do you do?” she asks conversationally, face fixed on a warm half-smile. “Although I know you're a published writer, Mr. Novak.”

Cas coughs into his hand. “Just, um, academic,” he says, “articles about, things. I teach. Anthropology.”

“Stanford?”

“Yes.”

“My roommate is in the nursing program,” she says, enthused. “It's a great place. So you spend a lot of the day standing, to teach?”

“Not really,” Cas says. “Writing takes more time. I'm at my computer more than I should be. I run.”

“Any common problems you associate with running?” she asks. “Cramps, splints?”

“Um.” He bounces one leg, thinking. “Not really. Running helps my back. I need a new desk chair, the one I have tilts and it's, my back and neck and... this side.” He gestures vaguely with his right hand.

“Okay,” she says, clearly taking mental notes. “Great to know. And then Dean, you do...?”

“Mechanic,” he says shortly. He's more sprawled than Cas in the low chair, legs out, fingers shoved into the tops of his pockets. “Greasemonkey.” He grins.

She meets it with equal warmth. “Heavy lifting?” she asks. “Abused hands? On your feet a lot?”

“Mostly on my back,” he says. Then, when she flashes him a look of pure suggestiveness he adds, “Under cars! Jesus, I won't be out gutter-brained by a chick.”

She laughs loud and honest. “Just for that, you get Janay.” She stands and heads to the door, which is still open. “So what do you think of just winging it today, boys? I have a good idea of how to treat you right.” She winks.

Cas flushes, but Dean gives his most dazzling grin. “Sounds like a good time,” he says.

She vanishes for a minute and Dean knocks Cas' knee with his own. “You good?”

“I don't know what I'm doing,” Cas mutters.

“I think they're used to that,” says Dean. “Look, it's fine, it's gonna feel good and you'll

leave happy, nothing hinky about it.”

“It feels... hinky.” He stares at the table for a moment. “I'm going to have to get naked, aren't I?”

“You like getting naked,” Dean says, low.

“Not around just anybody,” Cas mumbles.

Then Kailani's back with another person in tow, a young black woman in black jeans and an Adventure Time t-shirt, with long gold-toned braids pulled back in a high ponytail. Kailani says, “All right, Dean, this is Janay. I'm gonna leave you in her capable hands.”

Dean stands, reaches out to shake Janay's hand. She grips his hand and pulls it to her after one shake. “Oh, I got your number, hon,” she says, turning his hand over. “Mani-pedi, hold the cucumbers?” She gives him a look that Cas can only describe as wicked.

“Uh,” says Dean. He flicks his eyes at Cas in a brief moment of silent 'wait, what?' Cas returns a nonverbal 'you got yourself into this.'

“Any kind of music you find relaxing?” Janay asks nicely.

“Metallica,” Dean says instantly.

Janay lights up and pulls Dean out of the room.

“We'll never see either of them again,” Kailani says mildly. “Okay, you want to come with me to the salon?”

“To the what now,” Cas says, standing and following her warily.

“I figured it was safe to throw Dean to the wolves,” Kailani says, pushing open another door. Behind it is a small studio room with a marble floor, a mirrored wall, and a counter with a bunch of what Cas can only assume are torture instruments in front of a barber's chair. Kailani leads him past this, behind a paper partition to a sink with an odd scooped front and another chair. “But I can tell you're uncomfortable with all this, so I figured we'd start small. Haircut?”

Cas hand flies to his head. “Do I need one?” he asks, feeling stupid and self-conscious.

She smiles. “It's not really about need,” she says. “Maybe just a trim. Mostly it's about letting someone else wash your hair. I know the whole Casa vibe is sort of a 'clothing optional' thing and it's not going to appeal to everyone.”

“No,” Cas agrees darkly.

“But you know, what your brother really sells here is intimacy,” she says, “which comes in a lot of different forms. We all kinda joke that it's because he didn't get hugged enough as a child.” She shrugs. “I figure it's probably true as far as it goes, but he's about a lot more than that.”

Cas scuffs the floor momentarily. “I honestly didn't know he could inspire such loyalty. I love him, but I figured that was more of an accident of genetics.”

She laughs. “Well, we love him, too. He's given a lot of people their second chances here.” She studies him for a moment. “He calls it poaching, what he does. He hires people out of other adult franchises. Ones that aren't so much on the up-and-up. That exploit immigrants and poor families and kids, stuff like that. A lot of them mysteriously fold after Gabriel gets a whiff of them, too.”

Cas is... maybe not stunned, that isn't the word, but his heart does a little double-take of startled affection for the loud-mouthed idiot who left him behind in hell when they were kids.

Maybe someday soon he'll finally be able to tell Gabriel that he forgives him for that.

He can't think of an adequate way to respond to Kailani in the here and now, however. He blinks a lot and looks away, and she seems to get it. “So, do I get to do my thing?” she says gently.

He sighs. “Sure,” he says. “Why not.”

It turns out that after the initial self-consciousness about getting in the chair and letting Kailani maneuver his head around at will, having her fingers in his hair is pretty fucking phenomenal. He should probably be alarmed at how dirty hair-washing – or really, scalp massaging – can feel, but he's too melted to care. She chatters just enough to fill the void and be a social lubricant, which is a hell of a skill all by itself.

He's kind of embarrassed with himself that he's disappointed when it's over. Kailani casts him a little smirk like she knows.

He resists much less when she ushers him to the barber's chair and slings out a black cloth. “All professional or leave it a little floppy?” she asks.

“I like the length,” he says hesitantly.

“Good deal,” she says, and gets the world's tiniest pair of scissors and proceeds to make exactly no change whatsoever to his hair, as far as he can tell. His failure to see the change is mutually exclusive with the small scatterings of water-black hair that form a drift on the floor around the chair. And somehow, when she's done, it does look more like the length is intentional rather than a result of giving zero fucks about his appearance.

“Huh,” he says, running a hand through it.

“Right?” she says. “You get to have those fun few days where everyone stares at you and tries to figure out what's different.”

Cas snorts.

She takes away the black cloth and has a brief go at his head with a blow drier. When she's done, whatever product she used on it has left it so soft he can't stop touching it to make sure he isn't hallucinating the texture. She leans on the back of the chair, making it sway slightly, and smiles at him in the mirror. “Okay,” she says. “Feeling a little more adventurous?”

He gives her an 'in for a penny' look back. “Sure.”

“Good,” she says, “because your back is gonna thank me _so_ much.”

He lets himself be led again, into yet another small room. “How much real estate is in here?” He asks.

“It was a pretty big store front when we rented it,” she says. “The small spaces were a conscious choice, we wanted to go for a very private experience.”

“We?”

“I'm the co-owner,” she says, and grins at his astonished look. “With my cousin Katie. We were – well, I won't say, but Gabriel gave Katie a chance to use her business management degree that our previous job... didn't. She always wanted to open her own business.”

“I thought it was odd,” Cas says slowly, “that you were watching the front but also do – all of this.”

“Oh, I was just letting Isaac take his lunch,” she says. “But I'm a jane of all trades here, for sure. I'm the only acupuncturist.” He can't hide a little shudder, but she just laughs. “Don't knock it til you've tried it.”

“Not today,” he says, almost pleading.

“Oh, no, not today,” she says, soothing. “Now we're getting to the fun part, though.” She gives him a pointed look. “The part for which you're overdressed.”

He groans, but somehow he isn't dreading it as much as he was. He's glad he got Kailani, and wonders how Dean's faring with Janay.

She gives him a sympathetic look and goes to a little cabinet in the corner. He takes a look around this room - small, enclosed, decorated much darker than the previous spaces. The walls are still green, but a shadowy forest tone. The ceiling is a warm brown that makes the room feel much shorter. There's a table in here, too, draped with soft towels. One corner has the linen cabinet Kailani's raiding, while another holds a tall sort of brazier thing with a big, lidded pot on top.

Kailani holds out a bundle of folded white fabric and soft terry cloth. “For you,” she says, voice slipping into a more professional tone than she's taken so far. Cas takes the clothes from her. “Now, we joke, but at absolutely _no_ point will I ask you to be naked in front of me. If at any time you feel uncomfortable, all you need to do is ask me to leave. Your clothes will always be in the same room with you.”

Cas clutches the bundle. “Thank you,” he says.

“Policy,” she says, “but we made the policy for a reason. This is a safe place.” She smiles again. “I'm gonna turn on this heater and I'll leave you alone to change. Just lie on your stomach on the table, all right?”

Cas nods. She fiddles with the brazier for a second and leaves, sliding the door firmly shut behind her. He stands there for a moment, trying to decide if he feels daring.

It turns out, he does. He strips fast and shakes out what Kailani left him. It's a pair of loose, soft drawstring pants and a bathrobe. He pulls on the pants but it's already way too warm in here for the robe, and he thinks he's not supposed to wear that, anyway.

The table is thickly padded and comfortable. He feels strange, lying facedown and not nearly clothed enough in a tiny room, about to get touched by a stranger, and in that way, this is still all very doctor's-office-ish and uncomfortable. But he's decided he likes Kailani and he might as well trust her. So he puts his head sideways on his folded arms and closes his eyes.

A couple minutes later, there's a soft knock on the doorframe. “May I?”

“Come in,” Cas says.

The door slides open again to admit Kailani, who goes straight to the brazier. “Dean's having a blast,” she says quietly, lifting the lid on the big pot with a soft billow of steam. “They're in the salon now.”

“Okay,” he says. He appreciates knowing where Dean is. And she knows that, which is why she checked. She's altogether too good at this. He supposes a huge part of this job is being able to read people like open books.

She goes to the linen cabinet and gets a few different sized towels, then comes over to him. Deftly she folds a big towel in half and drapes it to cover him from the waist down. “Now,” she says, tossing a small hand towel across her shoulder and rubbing her hands together. Her voice is modulated low, smooth, like a hypnotist. “I'm going to touch you, but I'll let you know where before I go there. You can always tell me no. I'd like to start with your hands. Is that all right?”

“Yes.” Cas flexes his fingers self-consciously.

It doesn't take even five minutes before Cas realizes he's never going to want to leave. It should be illegal, what she can elicit just by dragging out every finger, thumbing into every divot, spreading and flattening and bending and knuckling. She works his wrists, too, and on up the insides of his forearms until he can feel his fingertips tingling. She always tells him where her hands are about to move but she hardly needs to; he can tell where this is going before she even reaches his neck. When she does he might have let out an embarrassing little moan. Happily, she ignores it.

She breaks out oil, something that smells subtly of sandalwood and smoke, and he loses all track of time. Her hands are warm and strong. She knuckles into points in his neck that send sparks spiraling all the way into his toes. Every bit of him relaxes. When he thinks it's not possible to get any more melted, she'll do something ridiculous like put her elbow into the small of his back and press down, and he'll feel himself unraveling even more.

When she moves away, he makes the enormous effort of turning his head to see what she's doing. She opens the pot, starts pulling out gently steaming flat, black stones.

\---

Sometime later, he wakes up.

He doesn't hear anyone else in the room and there's still a line of warm weight on his back. He thinks idly that in other circumstances he might feel trapped, that his anxiety might flare up. He just smiles into his arms and closes his eyes again instead.

Eventually, Kailani returns. “Hi,” she says quietly. “How are you feeling?”

He sighs. “'M good,” he mumbles. With all his multi-languaged vocabulary he can't seem to come up with any more articulate way to describe how he is. Maybe that's it: he just is. There isn't any more to his state of being right now. It's one of the best things he's ever felt. “Very good,” he repeats.

“I'm going to start taking away the stones now,” she says. “Hands about to touch your shoulders.”

She doesn't just pick the stones up, but rather works each one away with some final kneading and smoothing. They've lost a lot of their heat and their lukewarm touch feels cool on his over-warmed skin. When she takes away the biggest stone from the base of his spine he feels strangely weightless all over.

“All right,” she says, moving away with a towel full of stones. “You want to stay there for a little while or are you ready to get up?”

He makes a noncommittal noise. He can't see why anyone would ever want to get up again. But then he remembers Dean, and other people, and the fact that the world still exists. Probably. He sighs. “How long've I been here?” he mumbles, turning his head.

“This treatment was an hour,” Kailani says, moving towards him again, in his line of sight.

That doesn't sound right. “Felt like longer,” he says.

“That means I'm doing it right,” she says. “And one good power nap can feel like a night's sleep. Okay, time to move. I checked on Janay a minute ago and Dean asked if you'd died.”

He snorts. Reluctantly he starts to pull himself together, shifting arms and legs to make sure he can still move them, then slowly pushing up to his elbows. She turns her back to him, picking up each stone and rubbing it shiny with a hand towel before slipping it back into the pot of water with a settling click.

He sits up, feeling light and lightheaded, and when he turns his neck there's no crick to pop, nothing in his spine that resists movement. He wiggles his toes. Now he _really_ wants to run. He shakes his head, grinning at his feet.

A few minutes later he's following Kailani back out into the maze of little rooms, back to the first room she'd sat them down in. He hears Dean before he even sets foot in the door.

“I'm _not_ saying Dark Side is overrated, just that Final Cut is underrated.”

“There's postwar protest rock and then there's autoerotic self-flagellation,” says Janay's voice.

Cas steps into the door just as Dean says, “What, and you wouldn't give that prize to Wall?”

“Wall is at least self-aware,” she argues. “Cut is the Waters solo album no one ever needed or wanted.”

“Pff. Ah, holy shit.”

Dean's in the same white pants and robe as Cas, sprawled on his back on the massage table, a cloth draped over his eyes. Janay's perched on a stool at the end of the table, one of Dean's feet in her hands, digging her thumbs into his instep. His toes curl slightly as she pushes and spreads and circles back.

“Hi,” Kailani says, stepping in next to Cas; she's brought his (folded) clothes along and places them on the chair that already hold's Dean's (in a crumpled pile). “Brought a visitor.”

Dean reaches up and flips the cloth back from one eye, sees Cas in the door. “You made it out of the shark pit,” he says. Then he makes a strangled little sound and his visible eye rolls up. “God, I'm sorry, I don't know what's happening but I think it makes me'n Janay legally married in most states.”

Janay gives an overexaggerated eyeroll and tweaks Dean's toes. Cas catches a flash of something dark and steps closer, brow furrowed.

“Are your toenails painted?” he asks incredulously.

Dean snorts a laugh and waggles his fingers. Cas finally notices the glossy black enamel there, too.

“Oh, we been full-on slumber party in here,” Janay says, letting go of Dean's foot with a slap to his heel. “If he had hair to braid I'da done it up in ribbons.”

“I'd like to see you try,” Dean scoffs.

“I'm a black belt,” she says. “I'd take my odds.”

“A black belt in wrong opinions.”

“Watch it.”

Kailani interrupts with a light, “I'm going to check on the front of house, do you need anything?”

“Nah, we're good,” Janay says, grabbing Dean's other foot. He catches her finger between two toes and she smacks his shin.

Cas tracks Kailani into the little hallway with its slate-green walls and distant sounds of trickling water. “Wait,” he says. “I just... thank you.”

She nods, looking knowing. “You're welcome to stay,” she says. “Use the steam room. Get ready to get back into the real world.”

He gives a little shake of his head and looks to the wall, organizing his thoughts. “Thank you,” he says slowly, “for letting me know my brother a little better. I'll pay more heed to his good works in the future. Now that I know he does them.” He looks rueful.

She smiles, soft and wide and genuine. “He's talked a little about his childhood,” she says, “and I know it's your background, too. I didn't want to be invasive, bringing it up. But... I know, what dogma can do to a kid. I do know.” She wraps an arm around her middle, holds her elbow with her other hand. “Katie just wanted to test herself with running a business. I wanted to make a place where it's safe for people to be alone with their bodies.”

Cas nods, a little jerky. “Thank you,” he says again. There isn't much else to say.

She spreads her arms a little with a grin that's almost shy, of all things. “Come see me again sometime?” she says.

He knows that, for once, declining the offered hug wouldn't come across as rude or awkward. Maybe that's why he's okay with accepting it instead.

\---

When they make it back up to the room, it's late in the afternoon and Dean's acting strangely.

Well, maybe strange isn't the word for it – frisky, if that didn't sound like a cat food, or just straight up horny, if that didn't sound more crass than what he's been doing for the last hour, which has been (for him) remarkably subtle.

First, he'd put off leaving the spa, waving Cas and Kailani away with some bullshit claim about not having finished arguing the finer points of 80s prog rock with Janay. Cas had not missed the conspiratorial wink Janay shot Kailani as they left. Not that Cas had minded getting drawn into a conversation with Kailani – he'd apologized again for jumping the gun with her name, which led to them talking about her mother's side of the family, who were all native Hawaiian. With a huge grin she'd launched into a story of the last time her family'd had a reunion in Hawaii – it involved things getting set on fire, machetes, and people getting hit in the face with skipjack.

When Dean had finally reappeared, he'd been a little off – harried, almost, which seemed at odds with the huge amount of time and energy that had just gone into getting both of them to relax. He'd also gotten dressed in his jeans and t-shirt again at some point. He'd declared he was hungry, and Cas had finally made his goodbyes to the spa staff and Kailani in particular, thanking her over and over for her patience and skill. She'd beamed and waved them out; Janay had given Dean a big hug and a surreptitious pat on the ass.

Dressed and chilled out (mostly), they'd gone in search of food. And since then, Dean's been doing... whatever he's doing. He holds doors for Cas, which he never does. He slides into his chair like he's maximizing contact between his ass and the seat, and does a strange settling movement that distantly echoes rutting. He toes off a shoe and runs his toes over Cas' ankle while they eat (okay, that one's not so subtle). He dances his fingers over things more than usual, until Cas is mesmerized by his thumb idly stroking the stainless steel handle of his fork.

Otherwise he acts fairly oblivious. It's not like he needs to do any of this to seduce Cas – and besides, when he does want to seduce Cas, he does it with a couple of snappy double entendres and/or something as unsubtle as a finger through Cas' belt or a hand darting into the back of his pants for a quick feel. This is... slinky, and almost self-absorbed? Cas' brow furrows while he sips coffee and struggles to place why this behavior seems familiar.

Whatever it is or whyever it's happening, and whether Dean means it to have this effect or not, it's gotten Cas antsy as hell to get Dean somewhere private. Quickly.

It isn't until they're in the elevator (with a few other people, or Cas might have already done something regrettable considering the elevator is clear glass and visible to the now-crowded lobby) that Cas figures out what seems familiar here. One day, when they were very recently married and still deeply oblivious to a lot of things, Amelia had gone around all day touching herself unconsciously, smoothing her skirt over her hips, shimmying in her everyday blouse like she knew something he didn't know. At the end of the day she'd stripped as sexily as she could figure out how (in hindsight, he thinks neither of them were remotely capable of being sexy at 18) and it turned out she'd plucked up the courage of her inner rebel and gone out and bought lacy, sheer, vibrantly colored underwear for the first time. She wasn't used to feeling sexy _to herself,_ was the thing, she'd explained to him later. It wasn't really about whether he liked it or not; she did.

Dean's acting the same. Like he's trying to adjust to an unfamiliar but welcome sensation. Cas thinks about the night they got here, how that afternoon he must have lain on his own bed and fingered himself open and fucked himself on the plug before wearing it all night in preparation for an act that Cas might not even have agreed to. Wore the plug _all night,_ Cas thinks again, and he swallows hard and leans up against Dean's side in the elevator. Dean casts him a look that's just knowing enough to get Cas' heart hammering.

The moment they're out of the elevator Cas slips his hand into Dean's and holds tight as he walks down the hall at top speed.

“Where's the fire,” Dean laughs behind him, but his tone is low and Cas doesn't need to see the spark of lust in his eyes to know it's there.

“I don't know what's gotten into you,” Cas says, reaching the door and fumbling for the keycard in his pocket. “But I can think of a few things.”

Dean spreads himself over Cas' back while Cas misses the first swipe. “Nothin' in me,” he murmurs, “yet, baby.”

Cas gets the door open, drags Dean inside and devours his stupid fucking mouth before the door's even clicked shut again.

Dean moans into the kiss, returning Cas' fervor hard and fast, pushing Cas back against the door. Cas' hands dive to his shirt, rucking it up to get a good expanse of skin to drag his short nails across. Dean digs his fingers into Cas' hair.

“'Dyou get a haircut?” Dean breaks the kiss to ask incredulously.

Cas grabs for his hand and forcibly splays open his fingers to have a good, long, pointed look at Dean's black nail polish. Dean looks just on the split-second verge of embarrassed before it melts into a 'who cares' grin. “Touche,” he murmurs.

Cas sucks two of his fingers into his mouth. A rough sigh escapes Dean, who crowds even closer to Cas, eyes on his lips.

Cas drops his other hand to Dean's hip, spreads his fingers down to push at the top of Dean's jeans. He sucks Dean's fingers deep and laves his tongue over the sensitive web of skin between them before pulling back.

Dean's pupils are blown, but just as Cas dips his fingers beneath Dean's belt, Dean blinks hard to break the spell of neediness. “Hey,” he rasps, moving his free hand down to catch Cas' at his waist and hold it still. “So, uh, gotta tell you one more thing.”

Cas takes Dean's fingers out of his mouth and twines his other hand into Dean's. “Anything,” he says. He recognizes the flutter of uncertainty in Dean's voice and tries to pull himself together enough to brace for some kind of bombshell.

But Dean just grins, slow and distant, the expression of fond (and probably dirty) memory. “There was a girl,” he says, “years ago, named Rhonda Hurley.” He moves Cas' hand at his waist so that it's pressed flat to Dean's skin, Dean's hand layered over it. “After we were done, she rolled off the bed and went to get her clothes, and I thought she was leaving. But then she comes back over with this little scrap of pink satin in her hand an' says... 'put 'em on.'”

Cas breath catches.

“Thought it was gonna be humiliating,” Dean murmurs, close to Cas' mouth now, moving his hand down his side, dipping beneath the waist of his jeans. “But it was just hot. Felt good. Wore 'em all that night. Kept 'em for a couple years, hidden, didn't wear 'em again. Never really thought about it again until recently.”

“How recently?” Cas asks.

Dean gives a little half-shrug. “Since first time I talked you into goin' along with my kinks. Wonderin' what you'd be okay with. Turns out everything so far.”

“I'm very accommodating,” Cas murmurs, flexing his hand under Dean's. “If you don't take your pants off in the next minute I'm going to make you come in them, and then I won't get to see what's under there.”

“You wanna see?” Dean grins into his mouth, then makes it impossible to answer with a kiss.

Cas kisses back hard, nips Dean's bottom lip, and wrests his hand out from under Dean's to push down a few inches further. His fingers encounter something silky-smooth, thin, with a ruffly-feeling edge. Dean gasps into his mouth and something in Cas' brain goes off like a firecracker. It isn't that cross-dressing is a big turn-on – he's never given it much thought, to be honest, just assumed that his lack of attraction to women extended also to feminine gender expression – but Dean's excitement fuels his own. Dean reclaiming himself _for_ himself, and then letting Cas share in the experience. Being invited into something so personal, so vulnerable, so greedy for self-fulfillment. Cas shoves his hand down without unbuttoning Dean's pants, which pulls the waistband tight enough that it must pinch, and smooths his palm over the silk on Dean's hip.

Dean bites his lip, not just a brush of teeth but hard enough to hurt, and Cas gives a startled yelp. The flash of pain pulls him out of his haze of lust. He takes his hands out of Dean's pants and pushes him back a few inches by the hip.

“Sorry,” Dean pants against his mouth, leans in as if to lick his lip in apology.

Cas turns his mouth away by a fraction of an inch. He looks at Dean with eyes half-lidded, pulls his own bottom lip into his mouth. “Apologize,” he says, testing the waters.

For a heartbeat Dean looks confused. “I did,” he says, but Cas' fingers tighten on his hips and Dean gets it. He breathes out heavily. “I'm sorry,” he says again, lower, moving his hands to rest demurely on Cas' shoulders. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

“Get on your knees,” Cas murmurs.

Dean slides down immediately, hands on Cas' sides, on top of his clothes. He moves to open Cas' fly and Cas catchs his hands in a firm grip, moves them away. “I've been naked enough today,” he says. Dean makes a noise of complaint and Cas gives him a dirty look. “You dragged me in there. Did Janay do anything besides mess with your hands and feet?”

Dean shakes his head.

“No?” Cas leans back against the door, tilting his hips so that his crotch is impossible for Dean to ignore. He can see Dean's fingers curl into fists against his thighs, resisting the urge to grab Cas again. “How'd you get the underwear, then?”

Dean opens his mouth, looking sheepish.

“You told her,” Cas continues, not giving Dean any time to talk. “About your little fetish. You were talking about turn-ons, I imagine, and it came to you, and you thought, why not share?”

Dean makes a little noise, rolling his eyes to the side a bit, like 'close enough'. He's gotten the message that he's not supposed to speak.

Cas runs his fingers through Dean's hair, gently pulls Dean's head towards him. “So she offered to take you shopping,” he murmurs, “and you ditched me to run out somewhere with her?”

Dean smirks up at him.

“Did she pick them, or did you? What did she imagine would be the outcome?” Cas muses idly, digging short fingernails into Dean's scalp, slowly increasing the pressure. “Did she see you in them? Did she think about you getting fucked? Talk.”

Dean gasps out a low whine. “She didn't see me,” he moans. “She guessed at a size and grabbed the first ones that looked good. I put them on and got dressed in private.”

“So you didn't even get to pick a pair you liked?” Cas chides quietly. “Then it won't matter if they get ruined.”

Dean whimpers. Cas relinquishes his death grip on Dean's hair, slowly abating the pressure, and Dean whimpers again, sagging closer to Cas with the loss.

The display of dominance isn't doing it for Cas, but Dean's reaction is. Cas is glad not to be blinded by lust, to be honest, because he's increasingly nervous about what he's doing and the clearer his mind is, the better he can read Dean's body language. Which, right now, is trembling with restraint. Even though his jeans don't have much give, Cas can see how tented they are.

“Get up,” he says. Dean obliges immediately, keeping close to Cas' body but not touching. Cas shivers. The obedience is a little strange to him, a little off-putting. But Dean's pupils are blown wide and his breath is coming ragged and sharp. Cas'll have to figure out how to work with this in the future, because if this is what this kind of thing does to Dean, and Dean wants to go there, then Cas'll sure as hell give it to him.

Cas touches Dean, runs his hands over his chest, but doesn't invite any touch in return. Dean visibly holds his tongue; Cas can see his cheek pucker as he bites the inside. “No inflicting pain on yourself,” Cas murmurs, pinching Dean through his shirt. Dean huffs out a short, annoyed breath and tilts his head back. Cas guesses that's some kind of defiance he could further punish Dean for, but he really doesn't want to. He realizes they're actually going to have to sit down and talk about boundaries with this thing. The thought doesn't instill any dread, just excitement about doing this more, getting more comfortable with it, knowing how to do exactly what Dean wants.

Cas gives Dean a bright smile. Dean eyes him half-lidded, mouth still pointedly shut.

“You're cute when you're pissed,” Cas says. “Touch me.”

Dean's hands are all over him immediately. Cas' erection had flagged some but it's back in full force as he drags Dean into a hard kiss and pulls their hips flush; Dean shoves his thigh between Cas' legs; Cas grinds shamelessly. They're back to exactly where they were when they'd stepped into the room, but Cas can't kid himself into thinking nothing's different. They've toed at a line and found that there was no line at all. They're currently repainting the line somewhere way off in the distance, not yet reached.

“Go to the bedroom,” Cas gasps while Dean sucks at his pulse.

“Still orderin' me around?” Dean asks roughly.

“If you want to,” Cas says, trying to sound all innocent and sweet. “Please.”

“With a cherry,” Dean mutters, but he's thrumming with laughter now.

“Nobody's got a cherry around here,” Cas grins.

Dean thumbs over the spot on Cas' lip he'd bitten, then turns and goes. He doesn't look to see if Cas is following.

Cas leans against the door and catches his breath for a minute. His heart is racing; he's taken aback at himself and thrilled in equal measure. He palms himself through his jeans, tries to think this through a little more. What does he want? More importantly, what does Dean want? First experience in expressing a specific kink in years. Cas needs to make it good, but he could just as easily work himself into a panic by overthinking it. He closes his eyes for a moment.

At last he pushes away from the door and goes to the bedroom. Dean's sitting on the edge of the mattress, still dressed, leaning back with his hand between his legs, trying to provide some relief with pressure. Cas leans on the doorframe and crosses his arms. Dean opens his eyes, sees Cas, and takes his hand away.

“I want to see them,” Cas says casually, not moving. “Strip.” Dean shudders. As an afterthought, Cas adds, “Please.” Dean laughs.

“I thought gentlemen asked,” Dean says, but he's already standing, hands going to his shirt. He pulls it off without any teasing, but he unbuttons and unzips his jeans slower, running his hands over his own waist and hips, letting out a little sigh of relief when his erection is freed from tight denim. He pushes the jeans down his thighs from the back, palming his own ass. Cas watches, trying to look dispassionate, probably failing.

The panties are a rich green and Cas couldn't have picked a better color if he'd tried. That rules out his first thought, which had been to talk about exactly what underwear would suit Dean best. He mentally curses and thanks Janay at the same time, because they aren't lacy – that wouldn't be Dean at all – but they are silky-sheer except for the very crotch, and they're slightly ruffly at the hems. They cover a little more area than Cas had expected, but then he didn't really know what he'd expected. A thong? (He doesn't understand the appeal of thongs. The times he actually wants anything digging into his asscrack are few, far between, very specific, and generally involve Dean.)

Dean turns to show off his ass as he leans over to push his jeans all the way off. He's already barefoot. Cas pushes away from the doorframe and goes over to him. Dean straightens, which puts his eye level slightly higher than Cas' but he tips his head and casts his gaze low to give the impression that Cas is looking down at him.

Cas takes Dean's hands and puts them on his shoulders. “These aren't coming off,” he says, plucking at the panties' elastic and thumbing over the skin just beneath. “Just letting you know.”

“Like?” Dean asks with a grin.

“They're exquisite,” Cas murmurs, “but that might just be the model.” He kisses Dean, then adds, “And don't get too attached, I wasn't kidding about ruining them.”

Dean links his hands behind Cas' neck and beams his approval.

Cas skips Dean's mouth and goes straight to his jaw and neck. When Dean starts to move his hands, Cas takes them and puts them back on his shoulders. Dean sighs. “No audience participation?” he asks.

“I'm the audience,” Cas says, pulling the elastic at Dean's waist out several inches and letting it snap back much harder than before. “I'm the one participating.”

Dean's breathing picks up as Cas works him over. This is familiar by now, the marking, the licking, sometimes pinching. Cas pinches more and harder this time. He takes pity on Dean's wavery stance and makes him sit down on the edge of the bed before he starts in on Dean's nipples, biting one and rolling the other until Dean's breath is coming in shallow gasps.

Cas pulls away. “Breathe,” he orders, then slides down to kneel on the thick pile of the Celtic knot rug. Dean sucks in a deep breath, eyes fixed on Cas, hands still resting in clenched fists over Cas' shoulders.

Cas snaps the elastic again, pushes Dean's legs wider and noses into his crotch. He runs his cheek over the satin, gusting out a hot breath against Dean's rock-hard dick. The panties wouldn't even need to be sheer for Cas to see how painfully hard he is. The fabric is a little too tight, tighter still with Dean filling it out like he is, and Cas makes a mental note to check the size and go one up next time. _Next time._ He shudders and Dean opens his hands over Cas' shoulders in response. When Cas doesn't stop him, Dean seems to realize he has an outlet for some return action and starts kneading at Cas' neck in a lewd imitation of the afternoon's massage.

Well, now he's ruined for massages forever, Cas thinks, hooking his hands behind Dean's knees. Good thing he got one before they did this, because now he'll never think about anything else.

He shifts his knees to get comfortable and presses his mouth to the satin. Dean's clearly struggling to control his breathing, taking it in a little deeper and more evenly, but when Cas licks a broad stripe up Dean's cock through the panties he gasps and bucks. Cas grips the backs of his knees tighter, repeats the lick, tongue flat out, pressed so close that his nose is dragging over satin too. Gradually, he starts to be able to taste Dean through the more sterile flavor of new fabric. He mouths and sucks until the panties are soaked with saliva and, judging from the increasingly sour-bitter tang, precome.

It's hard to get a significant mouthful of Dean this way, wrapped up in tight fabric, but Cas gives it his best effort. He's gotten a lot better at blowjobs since being with Dean, since his only previous experience had been with Balthazar who had generally been reticent about receiving in any form. Cas got it; he was a client, the partnership wasn't equal; Balth was providing a service; Cas does think they grew to honestly like each other, but that just made reciprocation even weirder, since the like was just that – like. Friends. They're still friends, probably, though Cas hasn't heard from him in over a year. Cas seems to get the order of most of his relationships backwards.

He runs one hand under the panties to maneuver Dean's erection into a easier angle to suck on, and as soon as his fingers make contact Dean bucks up. Cas is jostled away momentarily and looks up. Dean looks as utterly wrecked as Cas has ever seen him, lower lip bitten red and swollen, eyes nearly shut and what's visible gone black with arousal. As soon as he notices Cas' attention is on him he gasps out like he's been hit. “Please,” he croaks. _“Please.”_

Okay, this has gone on long enough. Cas himself is starting to get dizzy with it, the need for a quick release almost overwhelming his determination to draw this out to its perfect, necessary conclusion. He fists Dean a little more firmly and Dean cries out. “Are you too close?” Cas asks.

Dean sucks in air a couple times, then says, “No, I can. I got it.” His dick is throbbing in Cas' hand and Cas isn't sure he himself would be able not to come on the spot.

“Is the lube up there somewhere?” Cas asks. Dean twists his upper body to look. Cas lets go of his knee and cock. “Get up, turn around.”

Dean flips immediately, climbing onto the mattress on hands and knees and going hunting in the thrown and rumpled sheets for the little tube. Cas stands up, palms over Dean's hips, leans in so his jean-covered crotch rubs against Dean's ass. Dean loses track of what he's doing for a second, elbows buckling.

When Dean grabs the lube he practically throws it at Cas, who holds it for a second, not snapping it open.

“Cas,” Dean moans, folding his arms down and resting his forehead on them. He's completely presented like this, ass in the air, back arched and ready to arch more with the slightest provocation.

Cas snaps the tube open, coats his fingers. But he starts at the outside edge of the panties, slicking his fingers underneath them. Dean rocks his hips back, desperate. Cas pushes the dry thumb of his other hand against Dean's hole through the satin and Dean yells.

Cas' own breathing is getting rough now, and he lets go of Dean altogether long enough to open his jeans. He pushes his underwear down as far as he can inside the denim but leaves the jeans up, erection standing out red and already partly slicked with precome from the vee of the zipper. He gets a little more lube on his fingers, pulls the panties to the side, slides one finger right in.

Dean's back dips immediately, shoving back onto Cas' finger. There's no resistance at all. Cas adds another without waiting and Dean moans unrepentantly. It barely takes half a minute and another eagerly accepted finger before Cas is convinced Dean doesn't actually need any prep this time.

“Fuck,” Dean groans into his arm, and Cas isn't sure if it's an order or a general sentiment, but he agrees either way. He slicks himself up and holds the panties out of the way and Dean's cheeks apart with his thumbs, gripping hard into the flesh of Dean's ass.

Sinking in almost finishes them both. Dean shakes through it, scrabbling at the sheets, panting, all orders to breathe forgotten. He slams back towards Cas when he's halfway in and then cries out again when he feels the cold bite of zipper against his skin. Cas feels consumed by fire. He doesn't wait or try to set some slow pace, he just pulls back and pounds back in, and it sparks through him so sharp and high and bright that his knees nearly give.

He has to shift a little, get his knees braced up against the edge of the mattress, but then he lays into Dean. He's used less lube than the last couple of times and the greater friction is overwhelming. It isn't going to last long. This is probably the most vocal either of them has ever been, but Cas can't stop the gasped out noises he keeps making and he's sure Dean can't either.

Dean's thighs are quaking against him and Cas lets go of his ass with the hand that isn't holding the panties out of the way, slides around to his dick. He palms it hard through the satin. “Come on,” he pants. “Dean, Dean, come -”

The sound Dean makes is as much a sob as a shout. He bites hard into his own forearm and his rocks back against Cas' hips become jerkier, stuttered. Cas gets his fingers as far around Dean's shaft as he can through the satin and feels the twitching as Dean comes. He drags the panties down over Dean's shaft to spread his come around and so the head peeks out from under the elastic. Dean chokes out another sob and spurts again, just a little, grinding between Cas' cock and fingers.

Cas keeps hold of Dean's cock but focuses on himself for a moment. He's so close, so close. He can't even think about anything else, he can't _think_ , he just – needs – to -

Dean lets out a shaky, satisfied moan and clenches around Cas and that's it. Cas would argue with anyone who tried to call the sound he makes a scream. It's not a _scream_. It's just – a loud, accidentally high yell. He loses his grip on the panties, falls over Dean's back, lets go of his cock to hold him around the middle and just grind in and in and _in and in_.

He literally can't keep standing when the orgasm finally ebbs away. He shoves Dean up the bed, making just enough room for himself to pull out and collapse sideways. Dean shuffles up another few inches, pushes himself over on shaky arms and flops onto his back. They're not parallel; all Cas can reach on his first flailing attempt is Dean's knee. He squeezes it.

Dean coughs out a laugh at the touch. After a moment, he says, “Fucking hell.”

Cas blows out a long breath and squeezes his knee again, but is too boneless to move closer. “You have to tell me if I go too far,” he says.

Dean laughs again, deeper and more whole. “Not even close.”

Cas bites his cheek. “Then I might not want to go as far as you'd like,” he says carefully.

Dean shifts up, props on his elbows and looks down the mattress at Cas. “Dude,” he says, “it's not about that. I want _you_. The fact that you'll do any of this for me is – too fucking much, really.”

Cas relaxes again, grins up at Dean. “It's not all for you,” he says, and slaps at Dean's shin.

“Can't believe you didn't even get out of your pants.”

“Told you,” Cas says. He eyes Dean's newly-bought and newly-destroyed underwear. “Told you those wouldn't survive, either.”

Dean looks down, snaps the elastic. The green panties are looking pretty stained and stretched and rumpled, to be sure. There are runs in the sheer part of the satin. “Nah,” he says. “Adds character.”

Cas laughs so hard he nearly falls off the mattress.

Dean is the first one up, unusually for him, and he jokingly squeezes Cas knee on his way out towards the bathroom. Cas lies there and appreciates Dean's usual habit of drifting in the post-coital haze for as long as humanly possible. He sits up eventually, groaning, and strips down to nothing. Dean comes back (sans panties) just as he's tossing the bundle of clothes roughly towards the duffel in the corner. Dean eyes it. “I though you'd been naked enough today,” he says.

Cas sighs and flops back again. “They were sweaty,” he grumbles. “And there was come on my jeans.”

“Really?” Dean kneels over him with a hot, damp washcloth and runs it over Cas' soft dick, eliciting a hiss. “'Cause most of it was in my ass.”

Cas groans. “Stop doing that when there's no way in hell I can go again.”

“Fine, I'll save it for sometime more appropriate, like when we're not _in a friggin' sex castle.”_

Cas might giggle. He might. The sound could technically be classified as a giggle.

Dean tosses the cloth off towards the wall, too, heedless of getting water on the flooring. He crawls over Cas and flops down close enough to nuzzle into Cas' neck. Cas turns his head. They kiss deep and unhurried. After a time it dwindles to a stop and they just breathe each other's air, blinking slow and sleepy. “Don't think you're gonna need that book Amelia gave you,” Dean murmurs at length. “You got the hang of things.”

Cas grins through his sleepiness. “Good teacher,” he says.

Dean touches his nose to Cas'. “The hooker with the hilarious name?” He's grinning too.

“Yes,” Cas says. “Definitely him.”

\--- 

Cas wakes first this time.

It's sudden but soft, this waking. He blinks his eyes open on an inhale. He feels incredibly light, the air in his lungs clean and delicious. The shimmer of morning light through the curtains feels like a promise; he feels like if he went for a run now he might fly.

He only has to move his head a fraction to see Dean next to him. They've rolled out of their tangle of limbs in the night and claimed their own stretches of mattress, but that's okay. Dean's on his stomach, face turned towards Cas. It means Cas can see Dean's freckled shoulder, bare, tanned, and the way the white sheet is ruched up the small of his back. He watches Dean breathe. His forearm where it wraps around the pillow is flecked with faint, pale scars. Hot sparks, an accidental touch of battery acid, so many scrapes and dings from the shop. Cas loves them. They're proof of who Dean is and what he does and what he loves.

He's so overfull with love it hurts. It's desperate and painful, this feeling, but he gathers it all to himself as best he can because he never wants it to stop.

His throat is a little tight when Dean's eyes move behind his closed lids and he draws in a deep, waking breath. He blinks, barely cracking his eyes open. They fall on Cas looking at him.

For a few seconds, the search for words is almost palpable. Cas can practically hear Dean running through good mornings and entendres and cracks about somnophilia. Cas runs through all his potential responses. And they'd all be comfortable, and they'd all be funny, and they'd all be welcome. But the urge fades after a minute, and Cas gets the impression that Dean's just done the same thing: played out all the conversational angles, found them to be good but ultimately unnecessary.

Dean's eyes crinkle up in a slow smile. They both know. This is all there has to be, now.

Cas smiles back, and if his eyes are a little blurry, he doesn't care if Dean can tell.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometime in May

Sam slings his bag over his shoulder and heads out of his room, looking mostly at the phone in his hands as he texts Kevin that he's just now leaving. It's already dark out; this evening class starts at 6:30 and Sam really, monumentally, viciously hates it. He's always been one of those people who's eager to learn no matter the topic, and if the teacher is even a little bit passionate he'd be happy to take a class about fruit flies or toxic mold or _whatever,_ but this class has tested his limits and found their breaking point. It's his twice-weekly hour and a half of Bluebook style guide hell, just citing and citing and more citing, and getting docked a million points for every period that's on the wrong side of a parenthesis.

Thankfully, he's made a friend there in Kevin Tran, poli sci prodigy and walking hair disaster. Sam's not gonna discourage any dude from attempting to live the long-hair lifestyle, but he thinks Kevin may be cursed. First he got an electric shock from an outlet that made it stand up for three days; then he got it caught in a door hinge and had a lopsided emergency cut for a while; then his little cousin mashed gum in it while he was babysitting; then his chem lab partner accidentally spilled a bleach solution on him while he was looking for a lost pen on the floor. The ongoing tragedy of Kevin's hair is pretty much the only highlight of Bluebook.

So he isn't entirely paying attention as he heads down the hall to the living room. He sends the text as he veers automatically for the kitchen, thinking to stuff a couple granola bars in his bag to help survive the rest of the night.

Dean's voice catches his attention. “You put the cheese in first and the meat melts it, come on, that's basic.”

Cas argues, “It doesn't make any difference, though, if you're wrapping it up. And with less cheese you don't get that one big clump that sticks together and ends up in one place and then you hit it halfway through...”

“That's the best bite!”

“Ugh.”

“Besides, I was talkin' _tacos,_ not burritos. You can't put the cheese on top in a taco, it won't stay in, it's a disaster.”

“That's because you like hard shells, you philistine. And tacos are a disaster in general. Burritos are the superior food.”

“I don't even _know_ you.”

Sam crams granola bars into his bag and steps out of the kitchen to look over at the couch. Dean and Cas are facing each other, leaning against the arms, computer in Cas' lap and tablet in Dean's. They're both wearing the Game of Thrones shirts they got each other, the enormous dorks. The TV's on, but the sound's too low to make out. Their legs are side by side, and Dean kicks Cas in the hip even as Sam looks.

Cas kicks back. “I will stand by burritos, but licorice is the hill I choose to die on.”

“Oh come on!”

“It's _disgusting.”_

“It's classic. It's delicious.”

“It tastes like tar.”

“Have you tasted tar? 'Cause I've tasted tar, buddy.”

Sam clears his throat. Dean glances over the back of the couch and tosses him a sloppy salute.

“You two,” says Sam, “are either eighty or twelve, I can't decide.”

Dean immediately gives him a dirty look.

Sam gestures vaguely at... the whole package. Cas looks self-conscious. “I mean, good God, with the shirts and the arguing and the, just, everything, Jesus. Get married already, you act like it.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah little lawyer-man, get right on that.” And he makes a rude gesture involving both index fingers.

Sam gives him a 'you dumbass' look but Dean's expression doesn't flicker like it does when he's sarcastic. Cas looks at him, too, and tips his head fractionally to the side like he does in class.

“Dean... we live in California,” Cas says.

Dean gives him a look of utter bemusement.

“It's legal here?” Sam says.

Dean looks momentarily flummoxed, then defensive. Like, Great Wall of China defensive. Sam nearly chokes on a snort of laughter, but he schools his face calm as he can, just one quirked eyebrow.

“I was testing you,” Dean says, and Sam will at least give him this: when he bullshits, he bullshits bare-faced and owns it.

“You voted for it,” Sam says, keeping his face unmoved.

“I voted?” Dean scoffs. “I don't think so.”

“Come on, you remember all the times I've dragged your hungover ass out of bed to go punch little tickets at the community center?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, when you use me as a free extra vote?” Because Sam usually tells him how to vote, when he can successfully drag Dean to the polls. “Well, let's hope I did vote for that 'cause to be honest I'm usually not listening. I go for whoever's name sounds the funniest.” Dean gives Sam a shit-eating grin.

Cas cuts in, tone intense and serious, at odds with the banter. “Dean, that attitude is unacceptable. You _must_ exercise all forms of free will available to you at all times and one the highest of those is the democratic process. This is nonnegotiable if our relationship is to continue.”

Sam's never heard Cas say shit like that, and he freezes, worried that he's actually stirred up something more real than he meant to.

Dean seems less than concerned, though. “Dude, what,” he says, flat.

“I absolutely insist that you vote, and vote on your own mind and merits. The whole system is predicated upon the involvement of the common...”

Dean kicks out at his hip again. “Who you callin common.” Sam relaxes a little.

And this time, he does see the spark of amusement in Cas' overly-earnest expression. Okay, so this is just a weird form of banter between them. “I'll assist and incentivize the learning process,” Cas insists. “The next time a local election comes up, I'll quiz you on the parties and issues involved.”

Dean smirks. “And what do I get for knowing all that?”

Suddenly Sam is very sorry he's still here, because Cas' expression goes from earnest to filthy in no seconds flat. “You get to come,” he says.

Sam spins on his heel and is off for the door like he's been electrocuted. _“Goodbye,”_ he all but yells.

Dean just goes back to poking at his tablet with a look of supreme unconcern. “Have fun, Sammy. I'm gonna.”

“GOODBYE FOREVER.”

Dean's cackling follows him out into the hall.

\---

When he meets up with Kevin outside the dreaded classroom, Sam claps a hand over his mouth.

“Not a _word,”_ Kevin snarls. He has a buzzcut.

Sam shakes his head and bites his palm.

\---

The next time a local election comes around, Dean does voluntarily go with Sam to the polls, and he does know all the candidates and has a vague idea of what their platforms are. Sam has never been so sorry to witness Dean being an active and engaged member of society. This adventure of being around his brother in love is about 10% positivity, 90% Things That Cannot Be Unheard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly less directly related to the action than the other Sam timestamps, but I was consumed with the idea of Kevin Tran, Hair Disaster.

**Author's Note:**

> Dean reclaiming kinks after having been turned off of them by past abusive experiences - including submission, bottoming, mild pain, plugs, barebacking, crossdressing (thank you, The End, for giving us the Rhonda Hurley line that launched a million kinkfics).


End file.
